Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle
by GoldenTresses91
Summary: Is it true, as Dumbledore once said, that Tom Marvolo Riddle never desired nor retained any type of companionship? Or did something occur, some sort of tragedy, that turned him away from the light and forever steeped him in the realm of darkness?
1. Prologue

A/N As this is my first real attempt at following through with a FF, it may be a bit difficult for me to stay on track and be regular with pumping out chapters. The first reason for this is that I'm still in school. The second is that I want to make this as good of a story as I possibly can. So please, bear with me, and don't be afraid to criticize me, because I am all for it! So please, read and review! It's much appreciated. And now, without further ado, I give you the prologue to Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

**X**

Prologue

**X**

Christmas was one of the few times each year that the orphanage was a cheerful place. Little lights decked the hallways and rooms, and there was a large Christmas tree on each of the four floors (donated, of course). The children got away with more than they usually did – they were reprimanded only slightly for running inside.

Since the New Year was fast approaching, decorations were being taken down, rules were reinstated, and life in general was going on as usual.

On the night of the 31st of December, 1926, the careful equilibrium that the orphanage revolved upon was to come to a crashing halt, for, on this night, a child destined to have a dark birth and even darker future would be born and abandoned there.

A young woman by the name of Ms. Cope held the night watch at the orphanage on this (fateful?) night. Ms. Cope was training to become the head of the orphanage, and she loved all of the children dearly. She was making the last of her rounds for the night – it was half-past ten – when she heard a knock on the orphanage door. The young Ms. Cope pulled her coat tighter around her thin frame; it was, after all, the end of December and freezing outside. She shuffled quickly to the door and looked through the peep-hole. As fast as humanly possible, Ms. Cope flung open the door and hauled the bloodied form over the threshold. She rang the bell reserved for emergencies, and immediately three other women flocked to her side.

"Quick, quick! Bring her to the sick room!" one of the women whispered. The four lifted the limp, whimpering form of the filthy woman and carried her down the hall.

"Let's put her down here. Gently, ladies, gently!" Ms. Cope had taken charge, having overcome her initial shock. They quickly took off the woman's coat to reveal the fact that she was pregnant.

The woman groaned again, and opened her eyes. And what disturbing eyes they were! They stared, one at each corner, sideways. In her fear they seemed to bug out; the overall effect was quite eerie. She moaned, more blood seeping through her dress from the most private of areas. This woman suddenly began hissing and spitting, clutching her stomach with her knees to her chest, having some sort of fit. Ms. Cope grabbed hold of her hand and knelt by her head.

"Miss, miss, we are here to help you! Please, tell me your name, and I can help this move along faster."

The girl, so ugly, so dirty, clutched Ms. Cope's hand, her own personal lifeboat in a sea of pain. "Merope," she whispered, "Merope Gaunt. It hurts!" and she began to cry. "All alone, alone, I am all alone! I cannot do this, I cannot! I'll die, I'm dying, this hurts oh so much!" Merope was wailing and sobbing so hard, and she was so small and pathetic and alone, that Ms. Cope herself couldn't help being moved to tears.

"Hush, hush, you're no longer alone, child! I'm here, I'll help you through this! You cannot give up, if not to save yourself, to save your child! Think of your child! You don't want it to grow all alone, never knowing its Mamma, do you?" Merope only wept more violently. " I know, I know. This hurts a lot, I know. But just think of what you will be giving up if you don't at least try! I am here, I'll help you the whole way. Just please, try!"

The wretched girl, her face contorted in pain, miserably nodded her head in acquiescence. In a quiet voice she said, "Tell me what to do."

Ms. Cope smiled and gave Merope's clammy hand a soft squeeze…

**X**

At 11:59 P.M. December 31, 1926, a bouncing baby boy named Tom Marvolo Riddle was born. Merope Gaunt held him and cried, tears of joy and despair intermingled. For this child, _her_ child, looked just like his father, a reminder of all that she had lost. She kissed his forehead, stared at the tuft of jet-black hair covering his head, and gazed in wonder deep into his stormy eyes. Unable to keep awake any longer, she handed him to Ms. Cope.

At 12:12 on January 1, 1927, Merope Gaunt passed away.

And her child, the last remaining heir to Salazar Slytherin, turned over in his bassinet, sound asleep and unaware of the tragedies still to come.


	2. Chapter One

A/N I know that I took a while to update the second chapter, but school has really been bugging me. Yay last week of school this week!! So hopefully updates will be coming at a more regular pace after this week. Actually, they may not, because if you've read my authors page you will have seen how this story came to be. And if you have not seen it yet, I suggest you do, because I feel like being lazy and not repeating it :) So, without further ado, I give you...

**X**

Chapter One

**X**

His dark eyes tracked the other children from his hiding place under the stairs. Making as little noise as possible, six-year-old Tom Riddle closed the door. He made his way down the stairs hidden within his hiding spot, his candle held aloft.

It was dark and damp down in his hidey-hole, but Tom didn't mind, for, after all, it was the perfect type of climate for his friend to live in. He reached the foot of the stairs and, taking his small candle, lit the torch he himself had installed in a bracket on the wall. The room immediately flooded to life. Down there in his own personal undisturbed playground there were tons and tons of toys – a knight standing at attention, a wooden sword, a small wind-up carousal, a kings crown, a harmonica, and so much more. Of course, none of the toys really belonged to Tom; they'd all been… _given_ to him by the other children at the orphanage. This very young, very _needy_ boy was always isolated, always alone. The other children thought him strange and the adults tended to avoid him; poor Tom didn't understand why, but he'd already given up on being adopted. Why was he so unliked, so unloved? He tried to play with the other kids, but there was just something... _peculiar_ about him. People naturally, and without understanding why, avoided him.

Tom had given up on trying to get people to like him. If they wouldn't play with him, wouldn't share their toys, he'd take the toys by force. Somehow during this process the other children would change their minds and play with him, complying with his every command.

The six-year-old boy, with his darker than the most caliginous night hair and raging, storm-filled eyes looked around the room in confusion.

"Inky?" he whispered. "Inky?"

Inky usually was there at his side as soon as Tom entered his secret room. Where could she be…?

Tom felt something cold wrap its undulating body around his legs and squeeze him tight. Tom sighed happily and then let out a giggle when he felt something start to tickle his bare toes.

"Inky, stop that, it tickles!" And Tom started to laugh, an innocent, joyous laugh, the type that is contagious, until he had to sit down to keep from losing his balance and falling over. The snake – which is what Inky happened to be – unwrapped herself from Tom's legs and slithered up his thigh to coil herself upon his chest. She stared into his eyes, her very own were crinkled in mirth. Tom kissed her nose and started to softly stroke her head. Inky, his one true friend at the orphanage, closed her eyes in bliss.

"Inky," he whispered, "what took you so long? What were you up to today?"

Inky opened an eye and hissed, "There wass another person here lasst night."

Those of you who already know the basics of Tom's story know that Tom could speak to snakes since he was very young. However, the first time Tom heard Inky speak, he'd been quite sure something was wrong with his head…

**X**

_Tom had been exploring the orphanage since he'd learned to crawl. He was three years old when he'd discovered the secret staircase leading from the broom closet underneath the main stairs. Old brooms, mops, and buckets had been piled in front of the nearly invisible door. As soon as the precocious three-year-old had entered the small space, he'd known some secret was lying in wait, waiting for its contents to be divulged. He'd gotten the hidden door open without any problems and toddled his way down the dark and cobwebbed stairs. _ Remember, it must be taken into account that this remarkable child was always intelligent beyond his years and more cunning as an infant than most Slytherin's will ever be able to claim, even in their prime. _He had no qualms with the dark; rather, he embraced it and used it to his every advantage._

_Somehow, and without questioning it, a lantern had appeared fully lit at the base of the stairs. Even at this young age, Tom had quit trying to make sense out of the curious things that seemed to happen around him; it served to further his belief in his uniqueness, distinguished him from the other boring, bland children._

_Little Tom raised the lantern and looked around with excitement. This was his place! His alone! He wouldn't share it with anyone. Suddenly, an angry hiss was heard coming from the corner. _Leave!_ It seemed to say. _Get out!_ Tom was rooted to the spot; he couldn't move. From the shadows a snake appeared, slithering out from its dank corner, moving over the filthy floor like lightening. Its target: Tom._

_Wide-eyed and panicking, the toddler began backing away. Tom fell backwards over a bunch of boxes and yelled out. He looked up and the snake beside him, rearing its luxurious body up above the floor in preparation to strike. Tom closed his eyes and covered his small face with his hands, yelling out, _"Don't!"

_There was silence. Tom peeked out from behind his fingers to see the snake looking at him. _'Why did snake no bite?'_ the three year old thought. The snake lowered itself to Tom's eyelevel, scrutinizing his face._

"You ssspeak it?"

_Tom's eyes dilated, seeming to expand to the size of dinner plates. _

"D-did snakey just talk?"

"Yess young-one. But how thiss came to be that you understand and are sspeaking it iss beyond me…"

_Tom had lost his fear; now, he was merely curious. _"What does snakey mean?"

"Parsseltongue: ssnake language. It iss what you are sspeaking, right thiss ssecond."

_It didn't seem possible, but Tom's eyes only got bigger. _"I-I'm speaking snake?"

"Yess."

_And that was the beginning of their friendship. Soon Tom had become inseparable from Inky, taking to carrying her around in his pocket all day and talking to her when they were alone. Inky taught Tom all about snakes and their customs, telling him how best to gain a snake's instant respect. Just because he could speak their language, it did not mean that all snakes would accept him and cease their attack. Inky gave him a tutorial in manners, snake and human, as well as how to speak properly. Tom took it all in as a starving man might ravage a buffet if it were set in front of him. However, as Inky grew, the two were restrained from meeting one another, their time together reserved to snatches of stolen time. _

_But let us return to the six-year-old Tom…_

"Inky, who was it? And how did they get in here? I thought we were really hidden…"

"Young master I do not know. There wass ssomeone sstumbling around, ssearching for ssomething, and then they left. Nothing wass taken."

Tom cocked his head to the side. "Was it a kid or a grown-up?" he inquired.

"It wass no adult, but no child. What you would call a teenager, yess?"

Tom frowned, his expression thoughtful. The only teenager at the orphanage was Kenneth Maynard. Kenneth was abandoned to the orphanage four months previously after a fire destroyed his home; his parents, grandparents, and little sister were all killed in the mansion. His other relatives were living in America and could not afford to take him in. as a result of this abandonment, he'd been forced to live in the orphanage. He made his displeasure known by bullying all of the youngsters, aiming to have his own secret rule over them. So far, Tom had been the only one who hadn't been successfully bullied into submission. Tom made up his mind.

"Inky, you need to be careful okay? If he or anyone else ever comes here again, hide until they leave, but don't hurt them unless they are hurting you okay? Do you promise?"

"Of coursse, young masster. Do I have permissssion to hurt him if he iss hurting you?"

"Only if I ask for your help," Tom said sternly.

Inky nodded in acquiescence. "Very well, young one. I sshall do as you ssay."

Tom smiled in that boyish way only kids at that age can accomplish. "Thank you Inky! I think I have to go, Ms. Cope is going to call us to dinner soon." He pulled a face, but smiled when Inky put her face close to his and flicked her tongue out. He gave her one last pat on the head and a kiss, and set Inky down lovingly on the floor. "If I get the chance I'll bring you leftovers from dinner before I go to bed."

Inky shook her scaley head. "Young masster needss to eat all of his food sso he can grow up to be sstrong. Inky can feed herself."

Tom smiled and waved to her, leaving the room; he would bring Inky food anyway. He always did.

**X**

Hiding in the shadows, unbeknownst to Inky or Tom, a boy around the age of thirteen had been watching their exchange. He knew Tom was mad, he'd seen with his own eyes the little bugger hissing and spitting at the snake, like he could understand it. The affection, however, that Tom had shown for the snake was unmistakable. His eyes glinted with malice. Kenneth Maynard knew exactly how to get to Tom Riddle.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: You all are going to truly hate me after this chapter

A/N: You all are going to truly hate me after this chapter. Not only do I leave you with a cliffie, but I leave you with an intense, adrenaline-filled, inevitable, "WHY OH WHY??" sort of cliffie. At least, I hope that's the kind of impression it will leave on you… Also, if you pay very close attention to this chapter, it will give you a bit of a hint as to why Tommy boy chose the name he did. And that's all I am saying on the subject.

;-) And for those of you who haven't already, I seriously suggest you look at my authors page for more information on this story, and those of you who have already, look again! I updated it with some more stuff. Wow, how unauthorly was that sentence? Enough babbling! Without further ado, I give you Chapter Two of Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

Chapter Two

"_If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I need." _

_(__Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets__, Chapter 17, pg. 309-310)_

* * *

Tom shut the door to the closet under the stairs softly. The hall was deserted. He walked quickly down a set of stairs to reach the enlarged kitchen where all meals for the orphans were held. Before walking into the kitchen Tom made sure his shirt was tucked in and the collar adjusted properly; he didn't need Ms. Cope or anyone else to reprimand his appearance. The more he seemed to abide by the rules, the better off he was, as it left little room for doubt on his "innocence." Strange things were liable to happen around Tom; no one could ever prove that he'd done anything wrong, but the doubt was still there all the same.

Completely certain now that he was presentable, Tom pushed the swinging door open and walked in with purposeful strides. The other orphans looked up, but hastily looked away. Orphans, younger and older than he, on line for food parted so that he could be towards the front of the line. None of the adults seemed have noticed this unusual behavior. Tom grabbed a tray and walked down the line, thanking each of the volunteers who served him his dinner. "What a charming lad," they'd say amongst themselves later. "It's only a matter of time before some lucky family adopts him." Tom, however, had never been considered for adoption by anyone. Not seriously, at least.

As a baby, couples would look over him due to his serious nature. Rarely did he laugh. Rarely did he cry. Always, was he observant. Without understanding why, this bothered the potential parents; as a result, they'd move on, picking a happy, bubbly baby instead. Baby Tom was often confused by these events. It wasn't just the potential parents that overlooked him, though: the other matrons would only pay him attention when it was time for him to eat. Poor Tom would stand up in his crib, watching the adults playing with the other babies – throwing them lightly up into the air, kissing their chubby bellies, singing them to sleep – and wonder, "Why?" It seemed that Ms. Cope was the only one who paid him any attention, but this was only a little, for she was often busy with the affairs of the orphanage and had very little free time.

Tom found an empty seat and looked to the table where Ms. Cope sat, waiting for all the orphans to get their food and take a seat.

The past six years as head of the orphanage had not treated her very well. Her light-brown, wavy locks were going prematurely grey; her fiancée had run off with one of the nurses working at the orphanage; and bizarre incidents had continued to occur since she'd taken in Tom Riddle. But it was all just a coincidence, right? It wasn't like little Tom could have had anything to do with this – he'd have to be some sort of diabolical god, or magician or something. No, all that had happened had been meant to be. Besides – she held a special place for little Tom Riddle in her heart. He was, after all, the first and only child she'd ever delivered, that she'd helped bring into this world. He certainly was special. Special indeed.

It seemed that at this time, Ms. Cope was one of the few on staff that didn't see a thing wrong with young Tom Riddle. This, however, would change with time.

Ms. Cope stood up and cleared her throat, calling the orphans to attention.

"Children, let us say grace. Would any of you like to say it for us tonight?" The children were silent, shuffling their feet, looking in any direction but that of Ms. Cope.

Everyone but Tom.

He put on a simpering smile and said, "I will, Ms. Cope."

Ms. Cope beamed. "Very good, Tom! You may begin."

All the orphans bowed their heads, clasped their neighbor's hands, and waited for Tom to begin.

"Bless us, O Lord, for these your gifts, which we are about to receive. We thank Thee, Lord, for happy hearts, for rain and sunny weather. We thank Thee, Lord, for this our food and that we are together." Instead of stopping there, Tom continued on: "I thank Thee personally, my Lord, for sending me to this lovely place, with Ms. Cope as our protector and mother. Amen."

"Amen," the rest muttered together.

Ms. Cope wiped a tear from her eye. "Thank you, Tom, that was beautiful." She sniffled and got a hold on herself. "Alright children, you may eat now." And she sat back down, resuming talk with the others on staff at the orphanage.

On the outside, Tom was smiling benignly. Meanwhile, on the inside, the little boy was gloating. It really was easy to shove suspicion off of yourself. You just had to know the right things to do, to say. Tom shook his head, starting on his grilled fish, the best piece of the lot, specially saved for him by the cafeteria volunteers.

On the other side of the room, Kenneth Maynard was seething. _'Where_,' he wondered, '_does that little bugger get off on making **me** look bad? He had no right to say grace, **I **was going to do that!'_ In truth, however, Kenneth Maynard had had no such intention. Nevertheless, he continued to feel as though a wrong had been done to him, consolidating his resolve to get back at Tom Riddle.

X

Midnight. Tom's favorite part of the day. The time when you can feel the day roll onto its side into death, making way for its new-born heir. The charge in the air, felt only briefly before it fades into calm, was a feeling Tom lived every day for. He was sitting straight up in his bed, reveling in that change, allowing it to wash over him. The pale moon was reflected upon his skin, giving him an otherworldly glow. White face, blacker than black hair, long, black eyelashes fluttering against his high, aristocratic cheekbones… all helped to paint him in this ethereal light. Suddenly his eyes flashed open, dread rebounding the moon in those dark abysses. Something was wrong. Horribly, unpleasantly wrong.

Tom sprang out of bed and threw his door open, not caring about the noise he was making. He flew from his room, darted down the stairs three at a time, pushing himself past his usual limits, hoping against all hope he wasn't too late. Past the other children's rooms, past the portraits of the orphanage's benefactors, past the sick rooms until he reached hiding spot, his cupboard of brooms and mops, the place where all his secrets, where his best and only friend, were held. He hadn't even touched the door before it flung itself open, but there was no time, no time to question it, for the brooms and mops had already been cast aside, _there was someone down there._

And finally, the thing Tom dreaded hearing the most.

_There was screaming_. A _snake _was screaming.

"INKY!" he bellowed.


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: This is going to be an extremely controversial chapter you guys, but please, bear with me until the end of it where I have a better explanation – I want this to be as short and sweet as possible so you can get straight to it. It is pretty graphic and intense. Just keep in mind that this is TOM RIDDLE, the FUTURE LORD VOLDEMORT, and exactly from where he came in regards to ancestry, genetics… Note: italics in dialogue generally indicate the use of Parseltoungue. Now, here is Chapter Three of Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

Chapter Three

"_He scares the other children."_

"_You mean he's a bully?"_

"_I think he must be, but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents… nasty things…"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince__, Chapter 13, pg. 267)_

* * *

The staircase was already illuminated as Tom fled down the old, worn steps, his urgency exceeding his caring about his own safety. He catapulted himself down the last six steps, Inky's screams becoming few and far between. Tom had tears streaming down his face at this point, sobbing for his cherished friend. Tom rounded the corner of one of the large, stacked boxes, taking in the scene before him with horror.

There was blood splattered on all of the boxes and all over the floor. A piece of snake skin – not old, naturally shed skin, but freshly _peeled_ skin – was ornately draped over the wind-up carousal, the latter spinning and tinkling out a tune so completely opposite of the grisly setting.

And then Tom saw him, saw Kenneth Maynard swinging around and around his beloved Inky as though she were some sort of lasso. Tom screamed at the abomination, the cruelty of what this child was doing to his only friend. "Stop!" he sobbed out, "STOP! Stop it! Please, stop it!"

But Kenneth Maynard just laughed, an appallingly cruel laugh for one so young, and flung Inky with all his might at Tom's feet. Tom dove and caught her up, clutching the only good thing he had in this world to his chest. She was alive, but only just.

"_Inky!"_ he wailed in despair. _"Inky, please don't go, I'll save you, please, hang on!"_

She opened one golden-green eye and hissed out, _"Young masster, I am sso ssorry. I jusst wanted to protect you, to keep your ssecretss ssafe. Pleasse, forgive me."_

"_Inky, there's nothing to forgive, I'll save you, I swear - "_

"_No, young one," _she interrupted. _"There iss no time. I can feel the goddesss Nagini pulling on me. I musst go to join her. Do not fear my child, I sshall continue to watch over you. Only, you musst do one thing for me."_

"_Anything Inky! Anything at all!" _he wept.

"_Look after my children,"_ she said._ "Look after my counssinss, my brotherss, my ssissterss. Man often sseess uss as demonss. Change thiss, young masster! Change thiss! Be our protector! I have alwayss known you would be desstined for greatnesss, and thiss sshall help you. Never forget our lessonss, my little ssnake."_ Her eye began to close, her body going slack in Tom's arms. _"I have sseen the thingss you are capable of doing. It iss a ssort of magic, ssomthething my kind have alwayss been aware of. You are far more powerful than you will ever know…"_

Tom was barely paying attention, so intense was his grief. _"I'll never forget you, Inky!" _he vowed as the blood continued to pool on his chest, dripping softly to the floor. _"I promise."_

Inky sighed. _"I know young one. Jusst don't allow your grief to overtake you. I sshall never forget the kindnesss you once sshowed to me."_

"_Ssh, Inky. I'm here, don't speak anymore. You're safe now." _Inky smiled, relaxing into his arms, her eyes closing. She flicked her tongue out one last time, catching a single glistening, multi-faceted tear off of Tom's cheek, before finally going limp.

Tom set her lovingly down on the floor, away from the pool of blood, and stood straight. He pushed back his tears – there would be time to grieve later. At that moment, all of his attention was focused solely on the cause of all the destruction. His eyes were black with fury, and he allowed the feeling to pool up inside of him. Kenneth Maynard was still cackling from where he stood.

"Aww, is Tommy-boy sad? Did his ickle snaky-toy get broken?" he sneered. "Oh no no no, it wasn't a toy, it was his _friend_, how silly of me to not know the difference! Do you see now, little boy, what happens when you don't bow down to your superiors? Do you see now what happens when you embarrass your betters? I hope you do, you little _twit_, or I'll – "

Just what Kenneth Maynard would have done, Tom, and we along with him, would never know, for at that moment Tom let out a howl of pure, unadulterated rage and despair, and along with it a burst of black energy. The energy hit Kenneth square in the face and he toppled backwards over the toys, disappearing from view.

Tom stalked around the pile, power radiating from his very core. A dangerous glint lit up the six-year-olds eyes, a look of animalistic bestiality gracing his fine, aristocratic features. He came upon the bewildered Kenneth Maynard and kicked him in the stomach, stomped on his face, ground his heel into the boy's hand, all the while ignoring the screams of the boy who'd hurt him so.

Tom crouched down in front of the now bloody boy, the frightening look held within those black orbs no longer lost unto Kenneth Maynard.

"You," he whispered dangerously, "are going to regret ever surviving that fire, Kenneth Maynard. Even more than that, you're going to regret setting foot in this orphanage. I am going to _hurt_ you."

The black chasms that were Tom's eyes devoured the light blue of Kenneth's. A demonic look stole across Tom's face. "This is going to be _fun_, don't you think, Kenneth?" Kenneth was frozen in place, his eyes wide with alarm. "Yes, let's see how it feels to be helpless, shall we? First I think we will _skin_ you a bit, like you did to my friend." Tom found the pocket knife Kenneth had used on Inky on the floor. "Hmm, where should I start, my _superior_? Please, give me some direction. How about a finger?"

Ever so slowly, as one might caress a lover, Tom slit deeply into Kenneth's finger and began to pull the skin back. When Kenneth cried out in terror and pain, Tom shook his head. "Tsk tsk, we can't have you crying! Don't dish out a pain you yourself can't handle, _Maynard_. It's cowardly," he said mockingly.

"Riddle, you little freak, quit it! Stop it!"

"Why should I?" Tom roared. "Why should I, when you didn't for Inky? You did wrong, and now you have to pay for your crimes!"

"Please, Tom!" he begged. "Please! I'll never do it again, I swear it!"

"It's too late you bully! It's too late!" Tears streaked his face. "You can't take it back! Look what you did, what you did to an innocent creature!" Tom dragged the heavier boy with an almost (was it?) magical feat of strength over to where Inky lay. Kenneth refused to look at the destruction he had caused. "Look at her! _Look!_" The last word rang out as a command. As if an iron hand had a hold of his neck, Kenneth turned unwillingly to look at the snake. He tried to close his eyes, but Tom, "Don't you _dare_ you stupid baby! Open your eyes _now!_" And once again, Kenneth had no choice but to obey. "_That_ is your future, Maynard. Take a look at death. It's coming for you."

The black energy surrounded Tom once more before he expelled it out of himself, straight at Kenneth Maynard, never once losing his hate-filled eye contact with the boy who'd so unwisely challenged him…

**X**

Tom washed his bloody hands off in the stream by the orphanage. The night sky was turning navy with a hint of pink at its edges, signaling the impending dawn. Dawn. Tom started to choke up thinking about it. Dawn had been Inky's favorite time of the day. She'd once told him how she could hear the creatures, human and animals, stirring from sleep, stumbling over the edge of their nightly explorations in their minds. Inky had loved to wake up early to hear the birds beginning their song, sweetly tickling the world awake with their melodious voices. Tom remembered waking up early one morning to sit with Inky up in the very willow tree that was hanging over the stream he was now washing his hands in, and leaning back against its age-roughened trunk with his eyes closed, listening to Inky speak about the wonders of the dawn.

The willow tree leant over the stream, leafy vines touching its ever-flowing surface, knotted branches thick and twisting, not at all unlike that of a snake's body. Tom turned to the base of this ancient tree, where Inky's body now lay, and prepared to dig her grave. Tom dug with his hands. He scraped them over rock and gravelly dirt, tearing his nails. He seemed not to notice his now bleeding palms, the bloody and broken nails. Tom didn't care – his pain didn't matter, it was nothing in comparison to what Inky had suffered. Tom relished the pain that his work was bringing to him, for it gave him something to feel – anything was better than the numbness now stealing over him. He dug until his hands were a bloody mess, until he could have buried himself in the hole, until the sky was light with the fast-approaching dawn, until he could do no more. Then Tom carefully, affectionately, picked Inky up and cradled her broken body to his chest.

"I know you're in a good place now, Inky," he murmured, his voice full of tears and love. "I promise to do everything I can to do as you told me to." Tom looked skyward, emotion closing up his throat. "Nagini, I don't know if you exist, but Inky seemed to believe in you. Please watch over her. Inky was a good snake. She was my best friend… My _only_ friend."

He gingerly set her body down in the final resting place he'd created for her. Tom grabbed handfuls of dirt and placed it over her fractured coils until there was none left. He dusted off his hands, taking one last look at her grave before making his way back to the orphanage, tears hardening into cold resolve.

Tom Marvolo Riddle would not cry again for another eleven years.

**X**

Hours and hours later, the entire orphanage was awoken by a blood-curdling scream. One of the maids had been looking for a mop and found the secret entrance under the stairs.

I think you can guess what it was that she found.

Barely alive, Kenneth Maynard was pulled up those stairs, loaded onto a stretcher, and sent to the hospital. There it was determined that the poor soul was in a coma, and that there was no hope of his ever waking from it. Beaten to a bloody pulp he was, and Ms. Cope felt that it would be more humane to keep him off of life support so that he wouldn't have to live a vegetated life, constantly in pain.

The person who had done this to him was never found. The police were well and truly puzzled. There was no blood at the scene of the crime; there was no weapon, no fingerprints, absolutely _nothing_ but the body of the victim itself. (And no, Tom's toys were not there – it was as if they'd never been, and what he did with them we will never know.)

The police ended up ruling Kenneth's unfortunate accident as one in a series of serial-killing sprees that had been going on in the past few months. They helped Ms. Cope tighten up the orphanage's security, sealed up the place where Kenneth's body had been found, and left it at that.

**X**

Kenneth's pocket knife sat at the bottom of Tom's wardrobe gathering dust on its dried, bloody tip.

* * *

A/N: Some of you I am sure are shaking your heads thinking Tom is acting way out of character as a child of only six years. I only ask you to listen to what I am about to say, and if you are still of your opinions, you are more than entitled to them and I won't argue with you. Tom in the books has always been described as being exceptionally mature for his age. Also, remember that Inky has been tutoring him on how to speak properly. Even more than that, it seems that whenever he expresses emotions, it comes out more powerful than most – they're difficult for him to control… Now think on this: on his mother's side, he comes from an exceptionally powerful group of witches and wizards, as they are the last remaining relatives of Salazar Slytherin. In addition to this, the Gaunt's have been described as being a bit touched in the head, if you catch my drift. This may have carried over to Tom genetically. If you've ever lost someone you love, you know that your feelings extend to the extreme, no matter which side of the spectrum they're on. Tom, who has never had a friend, who was basically raised by Inky, lost his only friend to an act of extreme cruelty. Not only that, but he SAW what happened to her… I think its enough to make anyone go a bit crazed… And I trust you all noticed the reference at the very end to Tom's keeping a trophy of the knife; see HBP for more details on that :) If you still have questions, don't hesitate to talk to me to understand more fully. I really don't bite, and I in fact enjoy helping others to see my POV. I hope you enjoy the story, and the rating IS M for a reason…


	5. Chapter Four

A/N: It recently came to my attention while I was researching that I've been using the wrong name for the matron of the orphanage! Her REAL name is Ms. Cole, NOT Cope. For purposes of the story – and because I'm lazy and don't feel like changing it – I'm keeping the name as Cope. Just keep in mind that Cole and Cope are one in the same, alrighty? Coolness. Also, this chapter is _beastly_ in length! I figured I'd make it as long as I did so that it might hold you over until I return from my internship in three weeks. Hopefully the switching around in tenses/time won't confuse you. I'm really really sorry if it isn't as good as some of my other chapters – I don't know why, but it was murder on me to write. I think it's because I want to get to Tom's first year at Hogwarts and his first meeting with Dumbles… Oh wow, I really am rambling, I'm so sorry! So now, without further ado, as I cringe in my seat, I give you Chapter Four of Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

Chapter Four

"_His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and – most interestingly of all – he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive…"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince__, Chapter 13, pg. 276)  
_

* * *

An inhuman scream, blood drip, drip, dripping down his front, terrified eyes and then darkness.

There was a scuffling noise in the corner. He wanted to investigate, but the darkness intimidated him. You never knew what could be lying in wait ahead of you. No, he'd much rather stay put. At least in his little spot of darkness there was familiarity – it was a _known_ darkness. But the darkness had a mind of its own. Suddenly he lost his footing, he had no choice but to move forward, and move he did, forward at a frantic pace (there was not point in trying to go back), the scuffling noise increasing in tempo and then moving further away. He had no choice but to follow, the darkness wouldn't allow any other alternative.

He began to panic, the darkness was closing in, suffocating him, he stumbled forward blindly, somehow realizing that if he could just reach the noise he'd be alright. Something sticky was running down his face, into his eyes – blood! – he couldn't get it to go away, it was causing him pain, and the suffocating darkness pressed further and further upon him. He began to sprint, pushing himself through the darkness, no longer caring about what was ahead so long as he was no longer in pain. He was running frantically now, faster and faster he went until he fell over the edge and was tumbling, tumbling down a deep hole, the roaring jaws of death swallowing him whole in triumph…

**X**

Tom fell out of his bed with an ungraceful thud gasping for breath, his sheets knotted tightly around his body. He angrily untangled himself, disgusted that such a stupid dream could have so much power over him.

"Great, now I'll have to explain to Ms. Cope why my sheets need changing again," he grumbled, exasperated. He kicked the sheets out of his way, grabbing a change of clothes for the day.

It had been three years since that unpleasant day Kenneth Maynard had tortured him so.

Tom had sat up in bed after burying Inky, thinking on all that he'd done to the boy who'd dared cross his path. He'd thought long and hard on what he'd done to that boy, and all that Inky had said to him…

"_I have sseen the thingss you are capable of doing. It iss a ssort of magic, ssomething my kind have alwayss been aware of. You are far more powerful than you will ever know…"_

Was that what it was? What he'd done – had it been magic? It just seemed so absurd. But then, how else could he describe that black energy, Kenneth being thrown around the room, the bolts of silver light attacking him with a savage grace? How else had all the blood disappeared, leaving no trace of Tom's ever having been there? And if Inky was right, if he _was_ powerful, could he do it again? Could he replicate it on a whim? What _else_ was he capable of? Surely there would be limits to this sort of thing?

His curiosity sufficiently piqued, Tom decided to put his… _powers_… to the test. Looking around the room, his eyes fell on the book he'd been reading. The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, a first edition that he'd pilfered from Ms. Cope's room. _'Start off small,'_ he thought to himself. He stared at the book on top of his wardrobe that lay far from prying eyes and concentrated with all his might on making it come to him.

Nothing happened.

Tom concentrated again, eyebrows furrowing in frustration, to no avail. "Come on you stupid book! Move!"

Still nothing.

If there was one thing Tom Riddle hated, even at the age of six, it was failing. "I said, _MOVE_!" he hissed the last word in Parseltongue and, to his intense delight, the book flew up and off of the wardrobe to nestle itself contentedly in his lap.

A wild sort of happiness stole across his fine features, twisting them grotesquely. He pumped his fist into the air in triumph.

"Yes!" he whooped, ecstatic by this victory. "I wonder what else I can do."

He looked at the book again. "_Open_," he hissed. The book opened, pages flipping in a frenzy to the last place he'd stopped at. Tom's smile took over his face as he leapt out of his bed, eyes sweeping the room for more to practice on. He closed his eyes, gathering his magic to him. His hair whipped through the air, the hairs on his arm stood at attention, his face locked in a look of pure exultation. The doors of the wardrobe were flung open of their own accord, the clothes on the floor took to the air, folding themselves to perfection and flying to their correct places in the waiting drawers. Without opening his eyes Tom felt for the other books in the room with his magic and willed them to order themselves by date of publication. He made a sweeping gesture with his hands and the room tidied itself up – the bed was made, the shelves were dusted, and everything on the small bedside table was put into a neat pile.

The wind quickly died down as Tom lowered his arms and opened his eyes. His raven eyes were resplendent with a sparkling passion as he surveyed his room.

"Woah," he breathed.

Tom hit the floor as an overwhelming wave of fatigue washed over him. Lying down on the floor, Tom gave in to his desire for sleep, soon enveloped in a deep and dreamless sleep.

Which is exactly how Ms. Cope found him when she saw he was the only orphan missing when all had been called to the assembly to question each of the children on whether or not they knew a thing about Kenneth's attack. It must have been at this point that Ms. Cope began to grow suspicious of Tom Riddle. Seven hours had passed since the maid had found Kenneth and he'd been rushed to the nearest hospital. Surely her scream would have woken him? And if not _her_ scream, then the subsequent stampeding of the children and _their _screams? And what on earth was he doing, sleeping on the floor? Only one who had been awake 'till the crack of dawn could have slept so peacefully through that.

Ms. Cope decided she would keep a closer eye on this particular charge of hers.

She watched him speak with the policemen. She watched him put up a concerned mask for appearance's sake. She watched as he fed the policemen seemingly useful information, pushing them further towards their idea of a possible serial killer. She watched Tom Riddle's eyes throughout it all, and what she saw both shocked and disturbed her.

His eyes were positively _shimmering_ with not only glee, but malice as well. Ms. Cope recoiled in horror. What sort of creature had she allowed to take up residence in her orphanage?

**X**

Ever since that day Tom started consciously using his magic, the orphanage – and its inhabitants along with it – had never been the same.

Less children were adopted out, and those who were were the ones the staff least expected – namely, the bullies. The older children. The ones secretly deemed to be "unadoptable." Soon, the only children left were those who were just barely seven years old and younger.

Tom had swiftly eliminated his competition; his reign over the orphanage had well and truly begun. No longer lonely, no longer wishing for friends, Tom had discovered power, and power was his new obsession. He held all others in contempt, including adults – he saw them as unworthy of his attention. After all, who were they to tell him what he could and could not do? People had become objects to him, things to manipulate and confuse to get what he wanted, to achieve his own ends.

The more Tom played with his magic, the easier it became for him to use without a second thought. Within a month of the attack on Kenneth, Tom was able to – with just a nonchalant wave of the hand – make the stairs turn into a slide, splatter finger-paints all over the walls, and make himself invisible throughout the whole ordeal, never once getting caught.

Children began to disappear in the middle of the night; when they returned to their rooms early the next morning, it was with blood-shot eyes and a trembling lip. No one could get them to speak if what was wrong, what had happened.

Whisperings of a ghost began to spring up all around the orphanage.

About a year after Tom's discovery, Billy Stubbs and that infernal rabbit showed up at the orphanage.

Billy Stubbs was the epitome of sweetness and propriety, and Riddle absolutely _loathed_ it. The nuisance would spoil every well thought out plan he had; his victims had found a shoulder to cry on. The kids who'd been on the stairs when they collapsed were rescued by Billy, forgetting their hurts for a while as he told them stories of the sea and heroes who'd battle the sea dragons living there. In all of his stories the hero was an orphaned child who found out they had a great destiny ahead of them, and their struggles with somehow coming to terms with this great burden lying in wait for them. Tom had to admit, the kid sure did have a talent as a storyteller.

Tom's siege on the orphanage became more malevolent with each plan Billy ruined as he helped the kids forget their pain. And then one day Billy Stubbs did something Tom would never let him get away with.

He approached Tom about the attacks on the children.

Although Billy Stubbs was a year older than Tom, Tom was a good five inches taller than he. Billy's deep brown eyes only came up to Tom's chin, and his curly-brown hair to the tip of his nose. With his peach-colored rabbit in hand, he walked politely up to Tom and said, "Tom, might I have a word with you?" Tom flinched at hearing his name, but otherwise ignored the boy. He was deep into reading a book entitled Paradise Lost by John Milton, and didn't much care what Billy Stubbs had to say. He nonchalantly flicked the page, moving on to the next one. Billy waited expectantly for Tom to finish the page, but when Tom just continued to read, Billy cleared his throat loudly. Still, Tom ignored him. Never having faced such rudeness before, Billy had no idea what to do. He decided on a more direct approach.

Walking straight up to the tall seven-year-old boy, Billy placed a hand on top of the spine and pushed down forcefully. Determined brown eyes met animosity-filled black. Billy shivered.

"T-tom? Might I speak with you?"

Tom kept staring into Billy's eyes, a dangerous look held within them, refusing to answer the do-gooder of the orphanage.

Undaunted, Billy cautiously continued. "I've noticed that a lot of accidents have been happening around the orphanage. A lot of the kids are scared – they've been talking about a ghost." Billy looked at Tom; still, the dark-haired boy would not reply. Billy trudged on. "There have been rumors that you somehow have something to do with all this."

Tom stared incredulously at Billy for a good ten seconds before it happened.

Starting from deep within his chest cavity, Tom began to chuckle which, in turn, turned into a roar of laughter. Doubled over on his bed, crying tears of extreme mirth, he was unable to stop the laughter that continued to rise up from his belly. Billy Stubbs looked on nervously, unsure of how to react. _'Maybe what they say about him _is _true,"_ Billy thought. _'Maybe he really is touched in the head.'_ As he was thinking this, Tom began to howl louder, as if he could _hear_ what Billy was thinking. When his maniacal laughter finally ceased and he was able to sit up, Tom wiped the corner of his eye, finally deigning to answer Billy.

"I don't know who you've been talking to, Billy, but obviously you are more stupid than I'd originally thought. How, exactly, do you propose I did all of those things? How could I push twelve of those brats down a flight of stairs when I was in my room the whole time? Ask anyone, they'll tell you: I was nowhere _near_ any of those street urchins at any of those times. I mean really!" Tom chuckled again. "Now run along with your little rabbit and tell some stories to those little liars." Billy just stared at him, a bemused look on his face. "Well, go on! Get out!" And Tom waved his hand in dismissal, shooing Billy from his room.

As soon as Tom's door was shut and Billy's footsteps couldn't be hear anymore, the laughter was wiped clean from his face to be replaced by a very ugly look. "I think," he mused, "it is time to _officially_ welcome Mr. Stubbs to _my_ orphanage." With a nasty look upon his face, Tom began making plans as to how he would ruin Billy Stubbs.

Several days went by without anything happening. The children started to relax, thinking Billy had somehow stopped the ghost; Billy, however, inexplicably became more and more nervous with each day that went by.

Five days after Billy's conversation with Tom, Billy walked into the orphanage with some of the other children – they'd been playing outside – and heard screams coming from upstairs. He scrambled up the stairs, the other children following, turning corner after corner until he reached the big play room. Little Amy Benson came tearing out of the room with her hands over her face sobbing her little heart out and bumped right into Billy. He kneeled down and holding her hands questioned her: "Amy, what happened?"

Amy took one look at Billy and cried even harder. "I-I c-c-can't, I-I'm s-sorry Billy, d-don't go in, it's t-terrible!" And she sat down, eyes overflowing with more tears. Standing up, Billy steeled himself for what he would find and, opening the door to the play room, saw…

Nothing. He looked around the room – the toys were all in place, the furniture hadn't moved, nothing was written on the walls…

But then he felt something soft drip onto his head. Slowly, Billy raised his head, and when we saw what was hanging from the ceiling he let out a horrible scream for, hanging nine feet above his head, was his beloved peach-colored pet rabbit.

He ran from the room, completely hysterical, only to crash into the last person he wished to see: Tom Riddle.

Tom held a hand out to Billy, a concerned look on his face, and asked, "What's wrong, Billy? What happened?" Billy looked at the proffered hand in horror, backing away as fast as he could.

"You just s-stay away from me, Tom! Stay a-away!" And he bolted down the stairs to find Ms. Cope.

Tom smirked at the retreating figure and walked into the play room with the other children. _'Too bad,'_ he thought to himself, _'that Billy will never know what _really_ happened to his rabbit.'_

That morning while everyone was still asleep, Tom had taken Billy's rabbit and crept stealthily out of the orphanage. He had walked into town, the rabbit held tightly to his chest as he spoke soothing words to it, and stepped into the local pet shop. He sold the peach-colored rabbit for eight pounds and returned quickly back to the orphanage, money jingling merrily in his pocket. There, he stole Billy's favorite yo-yo and with a quick thought, turned it into a very life-like, peach corpse of a rabbit. Tom brought the transfigured yo-yo to the play room, turned a toy soldier into a coil of rope and, with another thought, hung the fake rabbit from the rafters. Sneaking back to his room, Tom had laid down on his bed, waiting for his plan to come to fruition.

**X**

Tom Riddle, the one who had awoken from the dream, was pacing his room fully dressed in a collared shirt, shorts, and sneakers. _Why_ Ms. Cope felt the need to send them on a beach outing, _today _of all days, was beyond him.

Today was Tom's tenth birthday.

Over the last few years, since the incident with Billy Stubbs, Tom had refined his tactics of terror, only using them every once in a while. Mostly he worked on expanding his capabilities (he never, _ever_ wanted to be vulnerable to the manipulation of others; he reasoned that if he had enough power, and enough control over that power, then he would never be susceptible to the weaknesses that he was so easily able to exploit in others) and finding out from the snakes living around the orphanage what was going on in the outside world. Tom scoffed at the world leaders – they were supposed to be running things, _not_ allowing some stuck-up, wannabe German to have his way! At this rate, that man would be running the world if no one put a stop to this "appeasement" crap.

Tom shook his head and stared at the clock, tapping his foot impatiently. He wanted this day over and done with, and the brats of the orphanage were still asleep at 7:00! A smirk abruptly lit up his face. _'Well,'_ he reasoned, _'if they won't wake up on their own, I'll _make_ them.'_ Closing his eyes, Tom willed the children of the orphanage to wake, along with Ms. Cope. He felt with his magic for the kitchen staff and made them start breakfast.

Satisfied with his work, Tom left his room and strode down the stairs to the kitchen, listening to the other children beginning to stir in their rooms. He grabbed a tray, said a cheery "Good morning" to the staff as they placed food on his plate, and went to sit down at his regular table where no one ever bothered him. As Tom ate, he thought about the dream that had woken him from sleep so prematurely. It was the third time that month he'd had it, and Tom couldn't figure out why. _'Maybe it's a new power,' _he mused. _'Maybe I'm seeing the future.'_ Not that this placated him any. What sort of future was it that had him living in darkness, in a place where he had no control?

Shaking himself of his musings, Tom brought his empty tray to the kitchen door, handing it off to one of the staff who, in turn, gave him two lollipops. Tom smiled charmingly at her and made his way to a chair in the entrance hall, passing some of the other children (who immediately stepped out of his way) as he prepared to wait for everyone to be ready to leave. Thoroughly bored, he silently willed everyone to eat quickly. Fifteen minutes later a very dazed group of children with three adults crowded into the hallway, waiting for Ms. Cope to give them instructions. Tom stood and sauntered over to the group with his hands in his pockets as he listened to Ms. Cope speak.

"Alright children, listen up! As you all know, today we are going on a little outing to the beach," she waited for the children's cries to die down before continuing. "Since we're going to be taking the train, you all need to find a partner. Those of you who are older, please partner with the youngest ones."

There was a commotion as everyone rushed to find a partner. A devious smile graced Tom's features as he thought of _exactly _what he wanted to do today, a smile that went unnoticed by all. He saw Billy Stubbs, quiet and subdued, try to partner with seven-year-old Amy Benson. _'Ah, now we can't have this,'_ he thought, and pushed through the crowd to get to them. He put a light hand on Amy's shoulder and leaned down to whisper in her ear. A slightly scared Amy listened to what he had to say, but soon she started to giggle, nodding at whatever Tom was saying. As if he'd just noticed him, Tom looked down at Billy, who had a horrified look on his face, and said, softly, "Go find another partner, Stubbs; Amy is with _me_." Billy hastily backed away, falling over in his hurry to get away from Tom, earning a few laughs from the other orphans.

Turning to Amy, Tom held out his hand and smiled warmly. "Come on, Ames! Let's get going!" Laughing merrily, Amy took Tom's hand and began to skip, Tom jogging beside her. Amy looked up at Tom, her head not even reaching the tall boy's armpit. "Tom, what are you going to show me today?"

Tom looked down at her, his hair absorbing the sun like dark matter, to create an ebony halo around his head that pulsed with life. Smiling secretively, Tom winked at Amy. "Now, if I told you that I'd be spoiling the surprise, now wouldn't I?"

Amy giggled and squeezed Tom's hand tightly. "Okay, but you _have_ to promise it'll be fun," she said, pretending to be stern.

"Don't worry," he replied, smile growing, a barely concealed look of malice within those dark chasms. "It will be."

Amy chattered on about little things, Tom seeming to pay close attention to her. His mind, however, was in an entirely different place, churning the multiple ideas that he wished to put into action on this trip. Amy's inane prattling fell upon deaf ears as he thought ahead; he was contemplating the many ways his plan could go wrong, and how to ensure Amy wouldn't go squealing.

The children soon stepped off the train into a small town by the sea. Much to Ms. Cope's consternation, the children all ran ahead to catch their first glimpse of the ocean. Tom swept Amy up onto his back and ran to the edge of the cliff, a greedy look in his eyes as he leaned over and saw the ocean for the very first time.

Fifteen feet down, the roaring waves beat against the jagged cliff-face, swirling around the toothy rocks, an insatiable gullet opened wide. Tom shuddered, remembering his dream from the previous night. The wind stirred up in a frenzy making his hair fly all around his face and his shorts flap against his legs. If he closed his eyes, Tom could easily create the illusion that he was flying. His eyes snapped open. _'Now _there's _an idea,' _he thought. Tom shifted Amy to his hip and looked into her verdant eyes, her long, dark-brown hair whipping about to create a private curtain around the two children.

"Amy, we're going to play a little game now. It's called 'Hero.'"

Amy interrupted him, shrieking in delight. "Ooh, ooh! Can I be the princess, Tom, can I please, can I can I?"

Tom smiled, delighted by how easily she was falling for his bait. "Of course you can! You don't think _I _could be the princess, do you?" Amy giggled, shaking her head. "Okay, here are the rules. Since it's my game, you have to do everything I say or else you can't play anymore. Got it?"

"Got it!" she laughed, clapping her hands together, Tom's magic wrapping sinuously around her without her knowledge. "But can Dennis play too, Tom? Can he?"

Tom frowned. Controlling one kid would be hard enough, but two? He shook his head. "No, Dennis cannot play. Only us."

Amy's lip trembled and her eyes grew wide with their pleading. "Oh, _please_ Tom? _Please_ can he play? Who's gonna be the bad guy otherwise, 'cus you're playing the prince? _Please_ Tom?"

Tom contemplated Dennis; he was, after all, easily persuaded to do anything – he had no willpower whatsoever. Tom snorted in disgust, but soon was smirking on the inside. Oh, how _wrong_ she was! _He_ was the villain of this story. Sighing theatrically, Tom said, "Alright Ames, but you're going to have to find him and tell him the rules." Amy squealed happily and kissed Tom on the cheek before jumping down to go find Dennis, giving him more time to feel out the cave he sensed lying beneath him. Lying down on his stomach, he edged forward over the cliff to get a good look at its side. There were barely any protrusions to fit enough to serve as footholds. No matter, no matter, that could be rectified easily. He used his magic to move the rock around, inserting a few brittle ones here and there to keep the game exciting.

Soon Amy was back with a very nervous Dennis who was eying Tom with not a little fear. Tom felt with his magic – the same signature was wrapped around Dennis as Amy. _'Good, so he agreed to my terms. No going back now,' _he thought, laughing silently.

"Okay, are we all ready to go?" Tom asked, smiling kindly. The children nodded. The tension he had sensed in Dennis immediately went down. _'Fool,'_ he thought. _'You _never_ let your guard down around an enemy.'_

"So the game is called 'Hero.' Down there is a cave that we're going to play in, but we have to climb to get to it. I'll go first, and you guys just follow me and use the same footholds as I do, got it?"

Amy looked at Dennis and back at Tom, nodding vigorously. "Yup, we got it!"

Tom laughed and held out his hands to the other children, who quickly grasped them. "Then let's get going!"

Tom lowered himself down first, using his magic to keep the rocks dry. Amy followed, with Dennis bringing up the rear.

They were all quiet as they concentrated on getting down safely. Completely bored, Tom decided to shake things up a bit. When they were a bit above the half-way mark, the rock Amy was standing on broke off and plummeted down into the hungry waters. Amy screamed, now only holding on by one hand. "Tom!" she cried, fingers slipping. "Help – " and she fell, screeching in fear, only to be caught up by Tom. She clung tightly to him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. Tom kissed the top of her head.

"Are you okay Ames?"

She continued to sob, holding tightly on to him. "I want to go back!" she wailed.

"Shh Ames, its okay! I have you." But Amy kept crying and shaking her head. Tom was starting to become impatient. "Look, you want to be a princess, right? Well, princesses are always brave, that's why the prince wants them to begin with." Amy sniffled, paying attention. "Now, you could either be brave, like a princess, or a coward, like the evil stepmothers. Which is it going to be?"

Softly, Amy murmured, "Princess."

"Good. Now do me a favor and get on my back so I can get us down." Amy complied, and they made it to the mouth of the cave without any more mishaps. Tom jumped the last few feet into the water, which came up to the middle of his thighs. He moved to the side so he could help Dennis down, whose face was the color of ash. Dennis yelped ass he reached the water, which came up to the middle of his waist.

"W-where now, T-Tom?" he asked, teeth chattering.

"This way. Into the cave." _'Obviously,' _he thought, rolling his eyes. With Amy still on his back he moved forward, side-stepping the deep holes he knew were there. "Stick close to me Dennis, I don't want you to be swept away." Eager to get to the _real_ part of the cave, Tom began to maneuver faster through the water, Amy squealing each time the spray from the waves hit her. Tom quickly reached the boulder he knew was concealing the cave from sight, stepping easily onto the dry, rocky, bank. Dennis reached them a few seconds later as Tom pried Amy from his back. Too quietly for Dennis and Amy to hear, Tom murmured in Parseltongue, using the words to make the boulder feather-light. While the other two were looking around, Tom rolled the large boulder to the side, peering into the darkness of the cave. He created a narrow pathway for them to walk on and turned around to the other two.

"Let's go."

Amy and Dennis gathered close to Tom, squinting at the darkness.

"I don't know, Tom, it seems like it could be dangerous," Dennis said.

"Yea, Tom, I don't think I want to play anymore," Amy whimpered. "I don't like the dark."

Tom dropped his nice-guy act and sneered at them, thoroughly exasperated. "Well, guess what? You don't have a choice." And with a snap of his fingers, Amy and Dennis no longer had control over their bodies. "Now, _walk_," he commanded them, power imbued in his voice.

Amy and Dennis cried out, but they had no choice except to move.

Their bodies were no longer their own.

The three children stepped out onto the ledge and, with another snap of his fingers, the boulder rolled back into place, sealing them in complete darkness. Amy and Dennis screamed, but Tom just laughed. "Stick close to the wall children, we wouldn't want you to _accidentally_ fall into the lake." Amy and Dennis were hysterical, wailing and pleading with Tom to let them go. "You know I can't do that, not until the game is complete." The two continued to cry and beg, but Tom just sighed. "You know, the two of you are becoming very _boring_. How about we go for a swim? That sounds like fun, doesn't it?"

"But I can't swim, Tom!" Dennis cried. "Neither can Amy!"

"Well, there's no time like the present, is there? Now, _jump!_"

Amy and Dennis screamed as their bodies threw themselves into the water, Tom's laughter echoing around the cave. With a wave of his hand, a red light illuminated the cave, casting them all in an eerie light. The bloody light, combined with Tom's pale skin and black eyes and hair, made him look very much like a vampire. Amy and Dennis' splashing became more frantic as they felt something touch them.

"Tom!" Amy wailed, struggling to stay afloat. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

Tom's chortling continued, ignoring her pleas as he said, "I would get back to the path if I were you. It seems someone in the water thinks you'd make a nice dinner."

Amy's scream was cut off abruptly as something grabbed her leg and dragged her under the surface, the thing's other arm swiftly taking Dennis as well.

Tom stood lazily and stretched, looking at the watch he'd transfigured from one of the stones he's found near the orphanage. "It seems we have to get going soon. Now, what is it that I'm forgetting? Oh yes! The children!" He clapped his hands, chuckling at his own joke, and the two slimy arms pushed Amy and Dennis out onto the ledge Tom was standing on. He felt for their pulses and patted their panting heads. "Good, we're all in one piece. Let's get going, then!" Clapping his hands again, Amy and Dennis' exhausted bodies were forced to stand up and walk behind him to the entrance of the cave. Tom willed the boulder to roll aside and, once Amy and Dennis were through, magically sealed the entrance to make it look like it was part of the wall. Slinging Amy onto his back and grabbing Dennis, he waded back out into the open to the cliff face.

'_Now, for some _real_ fun.' _Tom closed his eyes, keeping skin-to-skin contact with Amy and Dennis and when he opened them, they were floating above the water. Whooping in ecstasy, Tom flew them back up to the edge of the cliff, a look of extreme happiness marring his face.

It really was the best birthday he'd ever had.

* * *

A/N: Well, happy fourth of July to my American readers! I hope this will hold you all over until I return from my trip on July 26th. Just to clarify a few things that some of you might be confused by… Billy Stubbs' rabbit. Why not kill the real thing? Think back to Inky, please. Someone had killed his friend, and he knew Billy saw the rabbit as his friend. Instead of actually killing it, he exacted his revenge by _seeming_ to have done it in. Cool, huh? Sorry, really tired, been typing all day and revising. Also, time period: 1936ish, if we want to be precise, give or take a year. Around the time Hitler is starting to come into power. Just so you all know, I recently finished taking AP Euro, so I _do_ know what I'm talking about. In this time period, keep in mind that there is a world-wide depression, and war is imminent. Children have to grow up before their time, especially those living in the orphanage… this gives them a bit of a mature outlook, and works its way into their speech. Any books I mention Tom reading are books that I've read as well. As always, I suggest you look at my profile in between story updates, since I generally will have posted something there about it. I think that's about it… I hope this chapter wasn't too horrible, and I don't think they're all going to be this long. Thanks for reading! Cheers!


	6. Chapter Five

A/N: There are no excuses for me to give as to why this took me so long to write out for you all. None whatsoever. I think I had some sort of lapse in time/judgment. I am so so so so sosososososoooooooo sorry. It took me a ridiculously long to write, and then edit, and then type. I hang my head in uber shame. Remember: Cope is Cole. In the line that is italicized where Tom is reading before receiving a visitor, that is from the novel Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. Yes, the actual novel wasn't published until a year after, but it's a good book and too me, the line is very pertinent to our young Thomas. You shall see why. Also, MAJOR HBP spoilers. A lot of the lines are directly from a certain scene in the novel, others are partial lines. Kudos to you if you figure out who the mystery child is in the chapter before the explanation, although it really isn't too difficult to figure out. Inspiration for the appearance of the kid goes to one of my reviewers – Insane Juggler – who asked me if Tom would meet another magical person before Hogwarts. If you think something is fishy about one of the names of the staff at the bookstore, you'd probably be right. And that's all I'm saying on the subject until you've read the chapter. And now, without further ado, I give you Chapter Five of Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

Chapter Five

"_Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did…"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets__, Chapter 17, pg. 312)  
_

* * *

They landed with a soft _thump_. Dennis and Amy's knees buckled as terror and exhausted tightened their hold upon the two. Tom grinned, ignoring their slumbering figures, looking back down at the ocean to the place the cave resided. What an adventure! He couldn't wait to fly again! Riding the wind, floating on the currents, weightless as a feather… For a moment there he'd been able to forget his past and envision an endlessly bright future. He looked back at Amy and Dennis, the ones who'd been able to put him in such a glorious mindset. He was in a gracious mood, and decided to reward the two for their services. Kneeling down between them he placed a hand on each of their heads and spoke in Parseltongue.

"_You will forget what happened to you down in the cave. All that happened will be forgotten, left to the realm of the dreaming. You will remember the climb, and then darkness. If asked, you explored the cave with me. That is all." _

Tom kept his hands on their heads for another moment, waiting for his magic to seep into the very fiber of their being, finally jolting them with a burst of energy just as Ms. Cope came huffing into view with a couple of others from the staff.

"Tom Riddle! You are in deep trouble young man!" she declared as she took in the sodden and bruised appearance of both Amy and Dennis. "Lois, Irene, take Amy and Dennis to the hospital. Mr. Riddle and I are going to have a chat." Tom had a confused look on his face, one that no longer fooled Ms. Cope. She grabbed him by the ear, marching off towards town where the other children were already gathered. "Everyone, on the train! _Now_!" she barked. Tom winced as she hauled him by the ear towards the train. Ms. Cope retained a vice-like grip on him until they were back at the orphanage and inside of her office with the door closed.

She threw Tom from her, utterly disgusted by the boy. Tom lost his balance, crashing into the wall and falling on his elbow painfully. He tried to stand up, to keep face, but Ms. Cope pushed him down onto the floor once more.

It seemed that she had finally lost it. "I am sick and tired of this, Tom. I am tired of you hurting my charges, defacing this property, manipulating the other adults here. No – don't even try denying it," she said as Tom went to open his mouth to, no doubt, profess his innocence. "You are a nasty little boy; no wonder your mother didn't want you." Tom's eyes widened in hurt.

"I-I thought she died," he whispered, his once impenetrable emotional shield finally broken, torn down, stomped on, shattered into a million tiny little pieces.

"Oh, she did, Tom," Ms. Cope said, relishing the hurt she was inflicting on the boy. "She did, screaming all the while about how she hated that thing inside of her, eating her, destroying her from the inside out. That things that she tried time and time again to abort on her own. She never wanted you, Tom," Ms. Cope sneered, Tom believing every word of her lie, tears of extreme sadness welling up in his now dull, black eyes.

_No one ever wanted me,_ he thought, despair rolling off of him in waves as all that he secretly feared seemed to be coming true. He stared at the woman in front of him, continuing to listen to her as she confirmed every person's worst nightmare. "When she died after giving birth to you, it was with a relieved smile. I tried to get her to hold you, but she told me she didn't want to touch vermin. Which is what you are, Tom: _vermin_," she stated triumphantly. "Now, you are _never_ to touch another of these children again. If you do, I shall have you carted off to the asylum. Do you understand me?" He nodded, tears that had yet to fall hardening, drying up, as he resolved to never allow this woman to get away with hurting him again. "Good. Now get out of my sight, you filthy boy."

Tom stood slowly, his eyes taking on their blank stare once more as he rebuilt his emotional fortress shard by shard. He walked proudly from her office, shoulders back, head held high. Ms. Cope slammed the door behind him. He walked calmly through the orphanage, glad to see the other children scurrying away from him. Tom didn't fail to notice how the others stared curiously after him; felt their inquisitive thoughts following their stares. Oh yes – Tom could indeed read minds at the age of ten. He had, after all, heard Billy Stubbs' thoughts questioning his sanity that one time. Tom brushed their thoughts away, wanting to be alone, always alone. People only complicated things. It was best to not get too close to anyone but yourself. He would never, ever allow another to crack his emotional barrier again. He would never allow another so close to him. To his heart.

Tom reached his room and closed the door silently behind him. He lay down on his bed with his arms behind his head, staring at the cracked and water-stained ceiling. With barely a thought, he called all of his books from their various hiding spots in his room and settled them down around him. He kept staring at the ceiling, memorizing every imperfection as he locked the memories away deep inside his head. Only one from that day did he allow to remain floating around his mind: flying. He'd _flown_, something that should have been impossible. He turned over onto his side, thinking about the freedom it had granted him. Gradually Tom began to relax, falling into a deep, deep sleep.

**X**

Tom shivered slightly as he walked the streets of London on his way back to the orphanage from school in mid-February. He clutched his flimsy jacket tighter around himself, cursing Ms. Cope for purposely buying him such a horrible jacket. He held his books tight against his chest as the wind threatened to tear them from his grasp. Tom shuddered from the icy blast, bowing his head and walking faster through the streets when he suddenly stopped cold. The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle as his body realized something before his mind could catch up: he was being watched.

Tom lay his books carefully on the pavement as he leaned down, pretending to tie his shoe. His eyes flitted back and forth. He reached out with his mind in an attempt to hear any negative thoughts; all he heard was silence. It was when he went to pick his books back up that he straightened quickly, spinning around to face his attacker, only to find a little boy with auburn colored hair and twinkling blue eyes standing behind him.

"Hullo," said the boy. "I'm Brian Percy. Who're you?"

Tom just stared at the boy. How had he snuck up behind him like that? Tom tried to probe the boy's mind. Nothing. Nothing but some sort of yellow candy. How… odd. The blue-eyed boy just smiled. Tom huffed and turned back around, intent on returning to the relative warmth of the orphanage as soon as possible. To his dismay, Brian followed him, swinging his arms in a carefree manner and whistling.

"So where do you live?" Brian asked, easily keeping pace with Tom's much longer strides. Tom looked down at the smaller boy, annoyance plainly written in his expression.

"Orphanage," he grunted, lengthening his strides.

Brian's blue eyes continued to twinkle. "That's interesting. I've always wondered what it would be like to live in one. My mother – "

"Kid, if you know what's good for you, you'll walk away now," Tom hissed, rounding on the small boy. "There is nothing _interesting_," he spat scathingly, "about living in an orphanage. It's cruel and it's despicable. Get out of my sight, kid. Get out now before I do something I will regret." Brian smiled at him unperturbed and turned around, walking back the way he had come. He turned around once more to look at Tom, who now had his back to him and was walking, a sad look in his blue eyes, before suddenly disappearing as if he'd never been.

Tom never noticed a thing.

**X**

Albus Dumbledore reappeared outside the gates of Hogwarts. He quietly walked onto the grounds, looking at the cold lake sprinkled with white caps and the frosted trees of the Forbidden Forest. He passed students making enchanted snowmen, bewitching their snow angels, lobbing snowballs at one another, smiling when the students all greeted him cheerfully. He slowly walked up the steps to the large double-doors of Hogwarts castle, pushing them open as he continued on towards his office. Chuckling darkly as a suit of armor wheezed an insult at him, Dumbledore marched up a large marble staircase and down a hallway to his private quarters. He closed the door behind him.

Immediately his entire demeanor changed. Albus Dumbledore's shoulders slumped forward, his head bowed, shuffling his feet across the cheerful lavender carpet to his desk. He sank down into his desk chair with his head in his hands. Fawkes the phoenix landed on the globe in front of him, trilling a comforting song. After a while, Albus raised his head to look into the black eyes of his friend, eyes so different, yet so similar, to the ones belonging to the object of his thoughts.

"What am I going to do?" he whispered.

Fawkes' mournful cry was his only answer.

**X**

The summer of 1938 was fast approaching, an eleven-year-old Tom growing more reclusive with each passing day. He spent the beginnings of that summer holed up in his room reading or out by Inky's grave being cradled by the boughs of the tree, staring at the clouds rolling by.

He no longer ate his meals with the other children, instead choosing to summon the food to wherever he happened to be at the moment. As miserable as he was, he made sure that Ms. Cope was even more so.

Tom began to experiment with manipulating the emotions of others. He made Ms. Cope hate her job, hate her life, relive all the options she once had and regret the decision she'd made to work at the orphanage. She began drinking every night, soon during the days, too, drowning herself in her own miseries. Tom, however, made it so that she was unable to escape life through drinking. He made her wallow even more with each sip she took, made the drink addicting. Tom smiled maliciously when he heard her depressed thoughts, enjoyed each day her life continued to spiral downward. He wouldn't allow her the satisfaction of suicide. No, he wanted her to suffer, suffer for the rest of her life for the lies she'd fed to him that day.

Oh yes, he'd found out about her lies. He'd been listening in on a conversation with one of the other women on staff, and her "discussion" with him had come up. Tom had sat there in shock, then anger, and finally, in a shaking rage as he listened to her gloat about it.

"And the best part, Helen," she'd hiccupped, "was he actually _believed_ me. The best way you can get a child to be obedient – and remember this, dear, for it is very important – is to find out what they fear and use it against them, whether there's any truth to it or not." The two women had laughed loudly, then continued on to other topics.

Tom began to grow ever more restless as his magic strengthened with each day that passed him by. It wasn't until July 27th that something finally happened to break the monotony that had become his life.

He had a visitor.

_You're alive and you don't hurt and that's much better than being alive and hurting. It – _

"Tom?" there was a knock on his door and Ms. Cope stuck her head in.

_What does that cow want now?_ Tom seethed, looking up from his book with a neutral expression despite his warring emotions.

"You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton – sorry, Dunderbore." Tom smirked inside. Clearly she had been drinking again. "He's come to tell you – well, I'll let him do it." And she closed the door behind her, successfully sealing him in with this stranger. Tom did a quick visual sweep of the man. _Who in their right minds would wear a purple velvet suit?_ Tom sneered in his head. He took a closer look at his face. Auburn beard, crooked nose, twinkling blue eyes… something about this man was awfully familiar, he just couldn't put a finger on it…

"How do you do, Tom?" The eccentric man stuck his hand out. Tom didn't know what Ms. Cope had told the man, but he had no doubt that they were all terrible things. In an effort to seem polite and reserved, Tom hesitated before taking his hand, shaking it slowly.

"I am Professor Dumbledore."

This caught Tom's attention. Immediately, he was on alert. Ms. Cope was having him looked at! But he hadn't bothered any of the brats! He'd made sure to shove it from her memory – how could this be?

"'Professor?' Is that like 'doctor?' What are you here for? Did _she_ get you in to have a look at me?"

"No, no," Dumbledore said, smiling nicely. He wouldn't fall for this! Tom would get past that insufferable smile and then make the man pay. He would _not_ go away! He wouldn't! He'd destroy this place with every ounce of power he had if they tried to take him away! He was sure this Dumbledore character had others waiting downstairs to cart him off. Tom wouldn't allow this to happen!

"I don't believe you. She wants me looked at, doesn't she?" he was starting to panic. "Tell the truth!" he imbued the command with as much power as he could muster, feeling the ringing force of the power ricocheting around the room. Nothing happened. His eyes widened as the man just kept smiling. Tom glared at him, angry that nothing had happened. Just who, exactly, _was_ this person? He tried penetrating Dumbledore's mind. Nothing. Tom stopped glaring, more wary than ever before.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school – your new school, if you would like to come."

_No. No no no no no no NO! _He screamed in his mind, jumping off of his bed and backing away from Dumbledore, his mind in a frenzy, trying to postpone the seemingly inevitable.

"You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor,' yes, of course – well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!" His chest was heaving, his eyes darting to all corners of the room, determined to knock one down if it came down to it.

"I am not from the asylum. I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts." _Hogwarts?_ He wondered as the name registered in his head. _What a silly name. They probably use it to lull you into a false sense of security, yes, that's it._ "Of course, if you would rather no come to the school, nobody will force you – "

"I'd like to see them try," Tom sneered. _Yes, they probably always send a man in a purple suit, just to freak the crazies out even more._

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore spoke over him, "is a school for people with special abilities – "

"I'm not mad!" Tom spat, getting tired of this idle chit-chatting. If he was going to try to cart him off to the loony-bin, he might as well do it now.

"I know that you are not mad." Tom made a noise in the back of his throat. "Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Tom froze. The silence pressed insistently down upon him. Had he heard Dumbledore right? He was careful to keep his expression blank, but if his mind was anything to go by, his emotions were in a complete and total uproar. His eyes darted back and forth between each of Dumbledore's, determined to prove the invalidity of his words. Then it dawned on him. The proverbial light bulb had gone off. This was real. This wasn't a lie. This wasn't a dream.

"Magic?" he repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," said Dumbledore.

He was in shock. His thoughts were incoherent.

"It's… it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," breathed Tom. His usually pale face was flushed from his mounting excitement, and he accidentally said more than he'd meant to. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to." His knees went weak with the adrenaline that was surging through his body. Stumbling, he sat down on his bed with his head bowed, staring at his trembling hands. "I knew I was different. I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right." Dumbledore's voice seemed far off, Tom wrapped up in his own happiness. "You are a wizard."

Tom's head snapped up to reveal a wild happiness, making his finely carved features seem rougher, his expression almost bestial.

"Are you a wizard too?"

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it," he commanded, forgetting that it wouldn't work on this particular man, this wizard. "Tell the truth."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts – "

Was the man mental? "Of course I am!" he said impatiently.

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir.'"

Tom narrowed his eyes. He did not like the fact that he would have to refer to this man as 'sir.' Dumbledore was no superior to _him_. Tom caught himself. He had to make sure this person could find nothing wrong with him.

_Too late_, a small voice whispered in his head. _You already told him some very incriminating things. What kind of a fool are you? 'I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.' Great utilization of the English language, very witty. What an amateur move, Riddle, real intelligent._

_Well, _he snarled back, _we'll just have to fix that, now won't we?_

Tom's tone turned polite, almost simpering, as he worked the infamous "Riddle Charm."

"I'm sorry, sir. I meant – please, Professor, could you show me – ?"

Dumbledore gave him a look of appraisal, then slowly took his wand out and flicked it at the wardrobe, causing it to burst into flame.

Tom howled in shock and rage. How _dare_ that – that – that _man_ destroy his possessions! As he rounded on Dumbledore, murder in his black eyes, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe looking the same as before. Tom looked at the wardrobe, then at Dumbledore, his eyes finally coming to rest on the wand in the older man's hand. His eyes flashed.

"Where can I get one of them?"

**X**

Tom was jostled roughly by the crowd and he couldn't care less. His eyes flew back and forth in awe, taking in everything they could. Clutching his letter – his letter! – tightly in his hand, Tom walked into the Apothecary to buy Potions supplies. He paid for them politely, sticking them into the cauldron along with his brass scales, robes, cloak, pointed hat, and collapsible telescope, before walking out towards Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore.

Dumbledore had laid down the rules for Tom, making it known that the behavior he'd previously displayed at the orphanage would not be tolerated. Tom shrugged at the memory. As far as he was concerned, it didn't matter what Dumbledore thought so long as he could convince the other adults of his innocence.

He stepped into the bookstore, allowing the wonderful, indescribable scent of thousands of books to wash over him. Tom watched in awe as books flew from boxes onto shelves, ladders move of their own volition to different sections, witches and wizards snapping their fingers and the books leaping off of their spots into waiting hands. So much knowledge! But where to begin?

"Excuse me young man! Do you need help by any chance?" a short wizard with wispy, flyaway hair squeaked up at him. Tom put on his most charming smile and nodded tentatively. The wizard beamed at him as Tom handed over his list of books. "Ah, your first year starting out at Hogwarts, is it? Follow me, follow me." The wizard snapped his fingers and several different books jumped off of their shelves to form a floating stack in front of him. The wizard turned to Tom and asked pleasantly, "Is there anything else I can get for you, dear boy?"

Tom smiled and shook his head no. "But, would it be alright if I browsed for a bit? I've never seen so many books, and, well…" he shrugged, sighing, "I love to read, and this is so fascinating to me."

The wizard grinned, crooking a finger towards Tom conspiratorially. "I'll tell you what, young man. It is not often that I get someone of your age who loves books. You may pick out two books. One, I'll give to you for free; the other, at half price. Sound good?"

Tom nodded vigorously, eyes wide with gratitude.

"Good. Let me hold your books and cauldron for you while you take a look around."

Tom smiled and handed his things over before turning away to find some books to read. Really, it was _so_ easy, manipulating the egos of others.

When he came back to the front desk, it was with five very heavy tomes in hand. The wizard commended him on his good taste in books. However, upon reaching the last one, the older man paused. "Ah. A Complete and Thorough Study on the Rise and Fall of History's Darkest Wizards. The 1937 edition that includes an incomplete compendium on the dark lord Grindelwald, I presume?" Tom nodded his head, eyes wide with innocence. The wizard laughed genially. "It doesn't hurt to be curious, dear boy, not at all. Just be careful who you read this around; most are not so open-minded when it comes to information regarding the Dark Ones. Though, why this book was sitting outside of our seventeen and above section is beyond me. I'll have to have a talk with Ms. Regnarg about that…"

Tom bid the wizard good day, smirking as he left the shop with his bundle of packages. There was one last place he had to visit. Ollivanders' Wand Shop.

He was in the shop with the eerie wizard for no more than five minutes when the wand Ollivander was about to offer to Tom leapt out of his hand and into Tom's, showering the shop in bright green shooting stars. Ollivander grabbed at his chest, muttering something about wands, before coming over and wrapping it up for Tom, Tom's face wild with happiness over getting a wand.

"Yew wood, thirteen and a half inches, feather from the tail of a phoenix," he muttered the whole way home.

The summer went by much faster after that. He was absorbed by his books, even the ones for school. He was captivated by the history of all magic, surprised to find out that Merlin had actually existed. The idea of Transfiguration, turning on thing into another, had him itching to test out the spells, the only thing stopping him being Dumbledore's warning of expulsion. But no subject engrossed him more than Defense Against the Dark Arts. His eyes were glued to the page of that book, taking in all the moving pictures that helped to explain the effects of certain spells, the things certain Dark creatures could do. Tom shivered at the thought of Dementors.

When reading his book on Dark wizards, a section within Salazar Slytherin's, one of the co-founders of Hogwarts, caught his eye. _Of all the powers this founder possessed, his ability to converse with serpents is perhaps the most notable of all_. Tom paused, eyes dilating with this information. He stuck his nose back in the book, reading faster than ever before._ After the dispute with Godric Gryffindor that finally forced him to take his leave of the castle, it is said that he built a secret chamber deep within the bowels of the Hogwarts castle, one that has been buried in legend, that is said to hold a most fearsome creature, a creature only Slytherin or his one true heir could control. Rumors abound on the species of this monster, but none have been proven. We must wait until, once more, a descendent of the great Salazar Slytherin returns to the castle to take his rightful place as the master of that most terrible of beasts, to purge Hogwarts of all those deemed, by Slytherin himself, to be unworthy of practicing magic to finally discover the true nature of the beast._ Tom continued reading about the founder, but nothing else seemed to be of interest to him. He finally closed the book, deep in thought. He and this powerful man shared some very similar attributes. They could both speak with snakes. They both had a natural ability to invade the minds of other people. Neither wished to be governed by those who were in charge. It was all very… intriguing…

Four days before term began, Tom had finished all of his books. The next few days dragged by slowly, so slowly that Tom could have sworn that someone was interfering with time to make it so. Finally the day came. September 1st, 1938, Tom left the orphanage for King's Cross' Station to begin his new life. His life as a wizard.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know, a bit of a cheesy/unimaginative last sentence. Sorry. I'd just like to say THANK YOU to all of those who have stuck by this story. I am extremely thankful that you haven't given up on me, especially since it's taken me so long to update. You can thank tropical storm Fay for the update, otherwise it probably would have been another two weeks. Tomorrow I start school, so it definitely will take me a while to get into the swing of things. It's probably safe to say the next update won't come for another month. To those who choose to review, I thank you from deep down. It means a lot, especially since it isn't even necessary to do so. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I thought it was sort of fun to write. Anyways, I hope everyone's summer was great! Cheers!


	7. Chapter Six

A/N: Why, hello there. Long time no see. Uhm… Sorry for the really long wait. School's really been eating me up, especially those darn AP's. I sincerely hope that those of you who have been following my story so diligently have not given up on me. I did warn you that it might take a while in between updates, you know. Anyways, I'm probably going to post the next chapter as well within the next week or so, as soon as I can work on it; possibly Thanksgiving at the latest. The Sorting takes place in this chapter; I attempted my own song for the hat, and I give you permission to be as harsh as you like on it. Well, I'll not take up your time any further, so, without further ado, I give you Chapter Six of Monster: The Story of Tom Marvolo Riddle. (p.s. Latin translations can be found at bottom of chapter )

* * *

Chapter Six

_He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale._

_(__Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince__, Chapter 13, pg. 269)_

* * *

The door to his compartment slammed open, startling Tom from his book. He quickly pulled his calm façade back into place as he looked up at the intruder, or intruder_s_, rather, as it so happened.

A tall blonde boy with an air of hauteur surrounding him looked down at Tom with annoyance so obviously plastered onto his face for the world to see. _Mistake number one: never display your emotions so easily. You'll become an easy target for manipulation._ He thought. His gaze fell on the blonde's right where a thin, mousy-haired boy stood with a bored look. _Better,_ Tom thought. _Feigning indifference to replace curiosity. He could be useful._ The boy on the left, however, made Tom want to laugh out loud – instead, he just raised an eyebrow a miniscule amount. For this boy, the one to the blonde's left, looked like something escaped from the circus. He was huge and hulking, with long, hairy arms and a mass of hair sticking up from his head and neck. Tom briefly wondered if the compartment door had had to magically expand to accommodate the brute, but quickly shook it off. A blasé look conforming to his features, Tom turned back to his book, hoping, but knowing that they wouldn't, the trio would take a hint and leave him be.

Before the three boys had interrupted him, Tom had been musing as he'd read on the events of that morning. Ms. Cope had come in to make sure he was ready to leave at 9:30, pretending to fuss with his appearance, pretending that she was _not_ happy to see him go, pretending that she and the staff would _not_ be celebrating his departure that night, pretending to give him advice, _motherly_ advice, on first appearances and friendships and who knew what else. Tom had glowered resentfully throughout, being that he was listening to her real thoughts as she spoke him and was irritated by her extremely transparent pretense. His relief was prevalent when the taxi came to pick him up, ecstatic to finally leave the dark orphanage in search of his bright future. Deciding to have one last go at the woman, he went so far as to disarm her by pecking her quickly on the cheek and, smiling, say, "I shall miss you very much, Ms. Cope. Do tell the other children I said goodbye." With that he had left, never once looking back, not even to see the incredulity on the woman's face who had once sworn to his mother that she was no longer alone.

Quiescent meditations, however, were not meant to be, as the intrusion by the three boys had proved. When he heard the door slam shut and the boys move to stand over him, Tom heaved a heavy sigh and closed his book once more to look at the boys hovering over him.

As tall as he was for his age, he was still shorter than the boys when sitting down. As much as this bothered him (he felt he was in a position of weakness, sitting below _anyone_), he refused to show that their intimidation efforts affected him; instead he stretched, languidly settling his arm over the back of his seat and crossing his right leg over his left, seemingly perfectly at ease. He peered up at the blonde (who was quite obviously the leader of the group) from under his shock of neatly combed-to-the-side black, wavy hair, and smiled. "Can I help you?"

The blonde, somewhat startled at the boy's reaction to him and his party, quickly schooled his features back to one of disdain and said, "Yes. You can leave." The two behind him chuckled; Tom just raised an eyebrow, further showcasing his aristocratic, proper, demeanor. He seemed to ponder the boy's statement, and then yawned.

"No."

The others stopped laughing. The blonde scowled, looking down at the boy in front of him. He noted that this insolent boy was fairly slight, but not unhealthily so, with black, wavy hair; he had eyes darker than the gloomiest night, cast with a hypnotic, transfixing vivacity, unparalleled to anything he'd ever seen before. He frowned, shaking himself from his stupor and jerked his thumb over at the huge boy. "How about I get Goyle over there to make you."

Tom looked down at his nails and buffed them against his shirt. "Intriguing idea, but I really don't think you want to do that," he replied, sighing as though he were suffering a terrible bout of boredom. "If you really feel that you must resort to such barbarism, then do what you will; you'll only embarrass yourself."

The blonde's ears and neck turned red and he clenched his fists, looking down at the unaffected boy. "Goyle!"

Goyle cracked his knuckles menacingly and took a step forward as the blonde moved back, recovering his previously haughty demeanor.

Tom sighed once more, thoroughly uninterested. His wand leapt out of his sleeve in an instant. Before the others had time to process anything they were all sitting on the bench in front of Tom bound and gagged as he continued to sit in the same position as before, thoroughly amused, his wand no where to be found.

"You can't say I didn't warn you," Tom chuckled, the delight of confrontation dancing in his dark eyes. _I _knew_ this would be fun,_ he thought joyously. _I can't wait to see how everything else will play out._ "I think I'll leave you like this for a few minutes, yes? Just until you've learned your lesson."

Tom picked his book back up, but then set it down, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "Maybe," he pondered aloud, thoroughly enjoying himself, "I'll undo your binds now. Yes, I think I shall; you understand fairly well what you stumbled upon and that you were in the wrong. Am I right?" At the other's insistent nods, he grinned. "Yes, I'll let you go."

With another flick of his wand, Tom had their binds undone and the gags out of their mouths. The blonde rubbed his jaw gingerly as he appraised the boy once more in front of him. _He could make a powerful ally,_ the boy thought. _Time to make amends._

Knowing fully well what the boy was thinking, Tom allowed him to speak, wanting him to have to suffer his embarrassment.

"The name is Abraxas Malfoy," the blonde sniffed. "Georgio Goyle, and Chester Nott," he pointed to each. Tom tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"Tom Riddle."

Abraxas nodded and stuck his hand out. Tom grasped it and they shook. "Good to meet you, Tom."

"Pleasure."

The boys all took their seats across from Tom, and soon they were all talking and taking pleasure in each others presences and the challenges each presented.

"My whole family's been in Slytherin," Malfoy boasted, "So it's only natural that that's where _I'll_ be Sorted." He looked at Tom, seeking his approval. Already, Tom had the boys at his command, and he smirked for Abraxas to continue. "Goyle and Nott's families have also always been in Slytherin. Except for that one cousin, eh, Nott?" Malfoy nudged him, laughing at the look of disgust on his friend's face.

"Yea," Nott grimaced, "but we don't keep in touch with her. Got sorted into that bloody Gryffindor house; I'd rather be a stupid Hufflepuff than a Gryffindor," he sneered.

"Oh, come now, Chester," Malfoy leered. "You can't possibly mean that, I mean, at least Gryffindors are _somewhat_ intelligent." At the furious look on Nott's face, however, Malfoy snickered. "Or maybe not."

Tom frowned as Malfoy's silvery gaze came to rest on him, but already knew what to say. "My father was a wizard – went to some foreign school, but both he and my mum died after I was born. However, from all that I've read on the subject, Slytherin seems to be the best choice." Tom didn't mention the book that lay deep in his trunk on dark wizards, which included the enlightening passage on Slytherin, nor any of his suspicions on the founder. He needed to always remain one-up from all those around him; distant; _powerful_.

He also failed to mention that all he knew about his parents were what he made them out to be – nothing more than what he desired of them.

The subject was dropped as the food cart came by at around two-thirty. Malfoy, Nott, and Goyle all bought food as Tom looked on. He wasn't about to waste what little money he had left over on food. _Besides,_ he grinned, watching the other three practically falling over themselves to offer him some of their spoils, _that's what followers are for._

Several hours later the train began to slow. Tom and the others quickly changed into their robes and then stepped off of the train.

"First Years," a voice crowed over the crowd. "This way, First Years! Into the boats, the lot of you," a jolly older man called.

Tom walked confidently over to the boats, Abraxas one step behind him and Nott and Goyle two steps behind Abraxas. The hierarchy had already been established.

Climbing gracefully into the boat, Tom sat at the prow, impatient to be going. The other three clambered in after him. Not too long after, the boats were ordered forward across the smooth, glassy lake, bright stars dotting its surface, an infinite wilderness waiting to swallow them all up.

**X**

Tom and Abraxas stood in the middle of the group of first years in the Great Hall. People at the four House tables were laughing and shouting greetings to their friends, as well as looking at the "ickle firsties." Tom heard snatches of – "Oh, but they're so _tiny_," and, "Blimey, when did they get so little?" in addition to, "Oy, Evans, were we ever that small?" Tom ignored most of these, as he was a good head taller than the majority of his peers. He pretended to listen to the inane whisperings of Abraxas, but was really focused on the Hall itself.

Four long and gleaming tables took up the vast majority of the Hall, with a slightly smaller table in front of the rest where the teachers and staff all sat. Unlike the students in their black robes with tall and pointed black hats, the teachers were bedecked in multi-colored and even multi-patterned robes.

The ceiling, he knew, was enchanted to look like the sky outside. Had he not known this, he would've sworn that he really was standing under the stars, rather than a dining hall. He tore his eyes away to take in the staff table once more; his gaze zeroed in on Professor Dumbledore. The Professor smiled at him as their eyes locked. Tom nodded stiffly before ripping his eyes away just in time to see a small witch scramble to the head table levitating a three-legged stool. As it settled down on the raised platform, a hush fell over the Hall as everyone turned to look at a dirty old hat that was set upon it.

But was it just a hat? Tom smirked, recalling what he had read about the Sorting Ceremony in Hogwarts, a History:

'_The Sorting Ceremony is as old as Hogwarts itself and is its longest-standing tradition. The legend, as purported by the Hat, and which is congruous with documents in the school library, is that the Founders did not wish to invade the impressionable minds of their students to place them within the proper Houses. It was Godric Gryffindor who came up with the Idea to imbue an object with all of the other Founders' memories, ideas, and knowledge in such a way that would not harm the students. Godric "whipped off" his favorite hat and he and the other three enchanted it to, literally, have a brain of its own. The Hat can think, feel, and even speak; it grows and molds itself throughout the ages, the years it is alive, to be able to properly Sort the many different generations. It has been known to converse with the Headmasters as well as the portraits of those long gone. But only if it so chooses; that itself is a rare occurrence.'_

The hat began to shake and, laughing, burst into song.

"When I was but a Hat

Over a thousand years ago,

Magic was not a shared act

Much to our Founders' woe.

Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff

With heads bent over plans

Created this place for magical learning

And thus Hogwarts School began!

Fiery Gryffindor, with brave notions,

Took those with courageous air;

Fair Ravenclaw, that lover of knowledge,

Nurtured those of similar mind did share.

That slippery Slytherin admired all schemers

Taking only those who had cunning and ambition;

Caring Hufflepuff loved all just the same,

Loving those of loyal, just, hardworking cognition.

So now you know the Houses four,

Come now, don't be shy!

Into your mind I'll have a look,

And on to your table you'll fly!"

At the songs end the entire Hall burst into loud applause, cheering and whistling merrily. Tom, too, clapped, albeit slowly, Abraxas, Goyle, and Nott following his lead. The little old woman took out a long scroll and, clearing her throat, called out, "Aaron, Matthew!"

The first year, looking a bit green, stumbled up to the stool and placed the Hat on his head.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted thirty seconds later.

The boy smiled and ran to go sit down amongst his peers who made room for him at the table, clapping him on the back and asking all sorts of questions. "Bartleby, Louisa," was called next and she too was Sorted into Hufflepuff by the Hat. A few moments later, "Black, Cedrella," became the first Ravenclaw. Tom looked over to the Slytherin table, noticing that it was much smaller than the other House tables, and he grinned widely. _They only take the elite,_ he thought. _I must make sure to be placed there._ His thoughts ended there when Cedrella's twin brother, Aries Black, was the first to be Sorted into Slytherin. Tom looked over at Cedrella, who seemed a bit put-out, and then he went back to staring at the Slytherin table, comparing how they greeted the first years to how the other Houses did it.

The Slytherin's remained calm and stoic, standing up to receive the newcomer as one. They took turns shaking his hand and introducing themselves. They continued speaking to him once seated again, interested looks on their faces. Tom narrowed his eyes and continued to observe them.

The Sorting continued with "Cory, Liana," as the first Gryffindor. Goyle was the first of their group to go into Slytherin, quickly followed by Malfoy and Nott. The body of first years to be Sorted was dwindling quickly until, at last, Tom heard his name called.

"Riddle, Tom Marvolo."

Raising an eyebrow at the use of his middle name, the only one to have been called as such, he moved gracefully to the head table standing tall and proud as all eyes turned to him. His nonchalant, unaffected mask didn't once waver, when his internal thoughts were in such opposition to his external appearance. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, his stomach turning in on itself, his lungs shrinking, his thoughts all over the map…

As he settled onto the stool and had the Hat placed on his head, he closed his eyes demurely and sucked in a deep breath.

Silence.

And then…

_Hello there, Tom Marvolo Riddle._ A voice whispered in his ear. _Dear me, it has been quite a while since I last saw one of _you_, _the voice chuckled in his ear.

_What do you mean?_ Tom asked politely, trying to reign in his wild curiosity at the Hat's comment.

_In a moment, boy, in a moment. You're quite intelligent, you know that there is nothing you can hide from me, so don't insult either of us by attempting it, _the Hat chastised. Tom smirked, listening as the Hat continued. _Cunning and ambitious. Intelligent and shrewd. Power, raw power, courses through your veins, its core at your heart. You've suffered many an injustice, oh yes, indeed you have. A thirst for revenge. More overwhelmingly, a thirst for _power._ There is only one logical place for you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, but before I place you there, allow me to leave you with some advice: Control and Power are nothing if you haven't anyone to share it with. Be not afraid, when the time comes, to open your heart because believe you me, it _will _come. As for that question you posed… Well. I think I'll leave that mystery alone for you to solve, __**puer patrici**__._

There was silence, and then, "SLYTHERIN!"

Shocked on the inside, smirking on the outside, Tom took the Hat off of his head and walked confidently over to the Slytherin table. Whispers followed him. Speculation abounded. The Hat had taken a bit too long to decide the fate of this dark boy. The Slytherins appraised him. The Gryffindors narrowed their eyes. The Ravenclaws looked thoughtful. The Hufflepuffs clapped politely.

Tom ignored the whisperings and the thoughts he could hear as he settled himself between Abraxas and a more senior student. He nodded and smiled at everyone, answered questions, shook hands, seemingly the epitome of cordiality as he captured the elder Slytherins in his fine-tuned web.

Professor Dumbledore stared after him, deep in thought.

Once "Zanders, Hector" had been Sorted into Ravenclaw and the Hat and stool taken away, the man sitting in the middle of the teachers stood up and silenced resumed. The man Tom presumed to be the Headmaster was the sorriest excuse for a man in power if he ever saw one. Medium in stature, feeble in appearance, he smiled weakly (but warmly) at the students assembled before him.

"Welcome, new students, and welcome back to those of you returning," he said meekly. "Before you receive the Welcoming Feast that has been prepared for you, there are a few announcements to be made…"

"Pathetic," Abraxas murmured into Tom's ear, chuckling as he sought Tom's approval. Tom just smirked, resuming his false, but seemingly sincere, attention on the Headmaster. Abraxas frowned, but followed suit.

"… the Forbidden Forest is still out of bounds, hence its name. 'Forbidden Forest.'" He smiled as though he'd just said something rather funny, and a few students giggled indulgently. "Banned items can be found posted on the bulletin by the doors to the Great Hall. Yes… erm. I think that's about it. Okay." He sat back down, and food filled the four House tables.

Tom grinned widely at the food set before him. No more dreary orphanage meals; he could now eat as much as he liked. He sighed happily as he stacked his plate with food.

Dinner was over quickly and soon the Slytherin Prefects, Liam Howe (who happened to be the elder boy Tom had been sitting next to, and had had an enlightening conversation with on the finer points of Transfiguration) and Diane Petrarch, were leading the first years to the Slytherin common room. They turned left out of the Great Hall, walked down several flights of stairs, turned right down another hall, trudged through a door pretending to be a vibrant tapestry, and went down another flight of stairs before appearing near a blank stone wall.

"_Sanguine serpentes_," Liam said.

With a rumbling sound, an arch of light was made ass the stone in front of them disappeared. Tom, who was at the head of the line, pushed through the arch and set foot in the common room.

The first thing he noticed was how _green_ everything was, from the drapes on the wall to the high-backed armchairs. The second thing was the bust of a monkey-like man with cold eyes and a long, angular beard. Snakes were carved around the pedestal the statue rested on, as well as around the stone fireplace and the legs of the chairs and tables. A green light seemed to pulse throughout the room, and when he looked up, Tom couldn't even make out the ceiling it was so high. _Or maybe, _he mused, _it's just an illusion, meant to intimidate.  
_

Tom noticed Malfoy, Goyle, and Nott were waiting for him at the foot of the stairs to the boys' dorms. He smirked, taking his time as he sauntered over to them, excitement and pure happiness pervading his body. He climbed the stairs ahead of the others, admiring the snake's undulating body that served as a banister. Tom walked down the hall to the highly polished mahogany door labeled "First Years" and pushed it open.

Seven four-poster beds were situated in the large room with enough space for each person to have privacy. Tom's bed stood near a large nook which, he noticed with pleasure, had the most privacy of all, despite the fact that it was near the middle of the room.

The beds had emerald green hangings with silver sheets of silk, as well as an emerald green comforter embroidered with snakes, his trunk lying at its foot. He trailed his fingers delicately over the fine hangings and bedding, ignoring the other boys' insignificant chattering, his chest swelling with an emotion so long forgotten that he couldn't understand or identify what it was.

_Is this what it means to be home?_ He wondered in awe, a strange feeling in the back of his throat.

Tom quickly undressed, hastily throwing on his pajamas and sliding in between the cool sheets. He drew the hangings around him, placed his wand obeisantly under his pillow and, closing his eyes, drifted into a peaceful sleep full of warmth. A hand stroked his head softly, welcoming him home at last.

* * *

A/N: translation #1: puer patrici = boy of privilege/inheritance. Translation #2: Sanguine serpentes = blood of the serpents, or serpents blood. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I really hope that I can get the next one in within the next few weeks. Hopefully updates won't be so far apart as this last time. Normally I wouldn't ask, but, just because I want to know that I still have some readers, be a dear and leave a little review. Just to say hi, or yell at me, or say this is stupid, etc. Constructive criticism is always appreciated and taken into account. :D


	8. AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is not a chapter!

I need to know what some of you would like from this story. As of right now, I have the first few Years of Tom as a student in planning. They're not extremely interesting until he gets to his fourth year when he discovers the Chamber (he uses it fifth year). There are several different ways I can approach this, but I would like your assistance in it. PM me with your preference (not in a review, please):

I do one chapter for each year.

I take the best of each year and put it into one chapter as a countdown almost to his seventh year, which is where my true inspiration for the story is headed and was begun.

I skip to fourth year, and quickly summarize all of the other years into it, and continue from there on that year, followed by a chapter each for fifth, sixth, and then the several for seventh.

I skip to fourth year and quickly summarize all the other years into it, and continue from there on that year, do a chapter or two for fifth year (depends on how it works out), skip sixth, and head straight to seventh.

Those are the options I'd like to explore; as o f now, the last one is the one I'm most in favor of, but I want to know if that is what YOU, as the reader, wants. Tell me in a PM which you all believe would be best. To help give you an incentive to reply, here is a snippet from where the story is headed; it was the first thing I wrote for the story (it came to me while I was doing some chores one night). After one week this A/N will be taken down, possibly earlier depending on the amount of answers I receive, and from there I will continue with the story. In this snippet, remember the Hat's "piece of advice," even if Tom chooses not to. Time: Seventh Year.

**X**

He walked through the library, so silent, so graceful, that had anyone looked up they'd have thought him to be a creature not unto this world. But of course no one looked up – Riddle made sure of it. Tom meandered through the stacks, his long, delicate fingers brushing along each sacred tome he came in contact with. Knowledge was power, and power was something he was quite fond of…

Suddenly he came to a dead stop. His eyes held an otherworldly look as a flash of red sped through them. Tom could feel the power radiating from the other side of the stacks. Harsh, strong, untamable. As he peered between the books, a wild sort of happiness stole across his face and he smiled in triumph for, not even four feet in front of him was the person he'd been so desperate to corner.

"Guinevere," he breathed.

And in that moment, upon feeling such raw power and finding the source of it, he knew. He knew he would make her his.


	9. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

"_Brilliant," he said softly. "Of course, he was probably the most brilliant student Hogwarts has ever seen."_

_(__Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets__, Chapter 18, pg. 329)_

_

* * *

_

Tom opened the double doors to the Great Hall early the next morning, finding himself to be one of only fifteen students up so soon. He glanced up at the ceiling to the Hall, mesmerized by the deep-blue-tinged-with-pink cloudless sky. He'd woken up that morning confident that the day would bring nothing but good to his previously harsh and dismal life.

He set his bag down on the bench beside him as he took his seat, helping himself to eggs, toast, bacon, and grits. Tom pulled out his Potions book, opened it to the seventh chapter, and immersed himself into its pages. The volume grew to a steady din as students arrived in the Great Hall; Tom was oblivious to it all, so intent was he on his reading. It wasn't until Abraxas fell into the seat beside him and began talking that Tom put his book away and was made aware of his surroundings.

"Studying already?" Malfoy grunted. "I hope you're not going to be a bore all year, Riddle." At Tom's arched eyebrow and cold expression, he quickly amended his words. "I just meant, you know, that, um…" flustered, he muttered, "Sorry. Not a morning person," and quickly shoved some food onto his plate. Tom looked away, smirking. Goyle and Nott stumbled over to the table bleary-eyed, followed by three other boys whom Tom recognized as his other roommates but had yet to speak to. Nott gave Tom a nod in greeting, sitting on his left, and Goyle lifted a meaty paw in salute before crashing into his seat across from them.

The three other boys walked over to Tom, who rose from his seat to introduce himself. The boy in the middle had black hair (lighter than Tom's – you could see brown undertones in the light) and gray eyes. He held out his hand with a carefree smile. "Cygnus Black. Good to meet you, Tom; I've already heard much talk about you," he grinned. Tom took his hand and shook it firmly, a lightness in his expression that concealed his calculating thoughts. The boy to the left of Cygnus had thick, brown, curly hair, and introduced himself as Sebastian Lestrange. The third boy had auburn hair and dark blue eyes with a cruel look to his features, giving his name to be Marcus Avery. Tom nodded, gesturing for them to take a seat across the table from him.

The boys became acquainted with one another, and it wasn't long before Tom had them reeled in nice and firm at his feet. They were soon interrupted, however, by a short, round man with a blonde, walrus-like mustache bounding towards them. "Hello, boys!" his voice boomed happily. "I'm Professor Slughorn, Potion's Master and Head of Slytherin House," he smiled at them. "I've come to hand out your schedules for the school year. I do believe I get to see you this morning, so look sharp!" He chuckled.

He was about to walk away when he caught sight of Tom's Potions text. "Oho! What have we here? A student actually working ahead?" At Tom's sheepish nod and shy smile, his booming laughter was once again released onto the Hall. "Well done, my boy! Can't ever go wrong with looking ahead! I look forward to seeing you in class!" He winked and, chuckling, continued down the table, handing out schedules.

At the other boys' incredulous faces, Tom shrugged. "Doesn't hurt to have teachers like you," he stated. The others twittered as Tom gathered his books and bag to head towards his first class, Charms, with Professor Flitwick. He heard hurried scrapings and banging's from behind him, evidence of his dormmate's attempts to catch up with him. _Let them scurry about like fools_, he thought. _I'll not babysit them. Let them squirm in their pursuit of my favor._

Fifteen minutes later Tom was seated next to Cygnus and Abraxas in the Charms classroom, waiting for class to begin, as were the Ravenclaws.

Abraxas leaned towards Tom, trying to redeem himself as well as occupy all of his attention, and said, "We lucked out in this class; the Ravenclaws are the only tolerable House here."

"I don't know," Tom mused. "We haven't really met anyone from the other Houses yet."

"Trust me," Abraxas pressed earnestly. "My entire family went to Hogwarts. I've heard stories from everyone, and they all said that the Ravenclaws are the only other House besides Slytherin worth associating with."

"How _nice_ for you, Malfoy," Tom replied coldly. "_I_, for one, hope to make my _own_ impressions when it comes to others, thank you very much."

Abraxas' face fell, and he retreated inside of himself for the rest of the day. Tom turned to Cygnus, who'd been watching the exchange coolly, an amused glint in his eyes. "The majority of my family have been in Slytherin," Cygnus said, "and have similar views to those of Abraxas." Malfoy looked up hopefully. "However," here, Malfoy slumped back down, "you seem to have the right idea, Tom; why make decisions based on the prejudices of an older generation? Seems to me that a person could miss out on a lot by following old views blindly."

Tom continued to look at him, appraising the boy, and pushing lightly at his mental faculties, meeting no resistance. Tom withdrew, surprised by what he had found. _He truly believes in what he said_, Tom thought pleasantly. _Interesting that he wasn't just saying that to be in my good graces._ He tilted his head, a little quirk to his mouth, before nodding and turning to the front of the room where a tiny man now stood calling for quiet.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, first years!" he squeaked. "My name is Professor Flitwick and, as I am sure you are aware, this is the Charms classroom. The first thing you will all be learning is how to levitate an object, like so." He cleared his throat, swished his wand through the air, and said, "_Wingardium Leviosa!_" His desk promptly lifted itself into the air, hovered, and then was carefully set back down on the ground again. The class clapped and whispered, excited by the magic. Tom, too, clapped and smiled, eager to appear polite and humble, while inside he scoffed at the tiny bit of magic they were to begin with.

Nevertheless, the class went by quickly after that, Tom taking copious amounts of notes and asking many questions; the Professor was pleased greatly by his new student's zeal for the subject, awarding Slytherin ten points for his inquisitive insights on the subject. His Slytherin comrades congratulated him in admiration; the Ravenclaws looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. Appearing unpretentious throughout, Tom secretly reveled in his superiority.

Double Potions with the Gryffindors was next. Professor Slughorn, upon seeing Tom, boomed, "There he is! The boy with humble ambition!" Tom nodded, forcing an embarrassed blush to his cheeks as he scuffed the floor with his shoes. "Come now, boy! What's your name? I don't recall catching it when we met this morning."

"Tom. Tom Riddle," he replied with a saccharine smile.

"Riddle?" Slughorn questioned. "Ah, yes! Riddle. Dumbledore told me he went to visit a boy with promising talent over the summer, in a Muggle orphanage, correct?"

Tom's chest had puffed out slightly in pride, but sagged at the mention of the orphanage; this time, he didn't have to fake his embarrassment. "Yes, sir. But my father was a wizard," he stated confidently, "I think he died before I was born, and my mother after."

Slughorn bounced on the balls of his feet jovially, clapping Tom on the back. "Dear boy, I didn't mean to upset you, there's nothing wrong with Muggles or having Muggle blood; of course, in Slytherin House, it is quite the peculiar trait to have, but…" he trailed off, shrugging, before patting Tom once more on the back. "Go on, take a seat."

Tom took a seat at the front of the room beside Cygnus Black and waited for Slughorn to begin.

"Potions," he began, "is not like Muggle cooking, or the Muggle technique called chemistry. It is its own science, one that requires magic and prodigious skill. It is not enough to just follow directions; you must truly have a knack for this subtle art, and offer yourself to the craft as such." He cleared his throat to continue, but paused, seeing Tom with his hand up. A rumbling laugh escaped him as he said, "Yes, Mr. Riddle? Have I lost you?"

Tom smiled complaisantly before shaking his head. "No, sir, I was just curious about something you said that doesn't seem to be congruous with what our textbook expressed." Slughorn raised his eyebrows and waved for him to continue. "Well, haven't there been Potions Masters who did terribly at the subject in school, but when they applied their own original techniques, excelled far beyond their teachers and predecessors? _They_ didn't seem to have any skill whatsoever – it wasn't until they tried things their own way that any sort of break-through or headway was made."

The Professor stared at him, shocked, for a good twenty seconds before his booming laughter rang throughout the entire classroom.

"Well said, my boy, well said!" he hooted, wiping a tear from his eyes. "Take five points for Slytherin for reading ahead – you are, of course, referring to Hadrian Venefici of Chapter Sixteen, I assume? – and another five points for such an outstandingly cheeky observation." Slughorn wagged his finger at Tom and gave him a saucy wink. "I'll be seeing great things from you in this class, Mr. Riddle, of that I have no doubt."

As the week wore on and Tom made a positive impression on all of his teachers, he found that he had gained not a few admirers along the way. The Ravenclaws were impressed by his intelligence; the Hufflepuffs by his outward deference; the Gryffindors, by his uncharacteristically friendly Slytherin nature; and the Slytherins by all of the prestige he was gaining for their House.

Tom Riddle's name began to crop up in conversation across the castle amongst both students and teachers. Professor Slughorn bragged to Professor Callahan, the Herbology teacher, about Tom's natural ability in the field of Potions; Professor Callahan to Slughorn on his quick-fire identification of all the plants in the greenhouse. Everyday in the teachers lounge, Tom Riddle came up in conversation. The only Professor to say nothing on the handsome orphan was Professor Dumbledore.

While Tom had been gently opinionated in his other classes, in Dumbledore's he'd been careful to not do or say anything to arouse Dumbledore's curiosity in any way. He kept his head down, remaining polite and keen to learn, raising his hand only to answer questions.

Dumbledore continued his observance all the same.

Tom was well aware.

Still, he had given no reason for the Professor to be reasonably suspicious, and was therefore left alone.

At the end of their first week, Tom and Avery were sitting in the common room playing chess when Avery slammed his hand down on the table in anger. Tom looked up with a bemused expression, when in reality he was entertaining some very smug thoughts. _About time he decided to speak up; I was getting rather bored, listening to his internal debates._

"I don't get it, Riddle," Avery said conversationally, his shaking voice the only indication of the ire simmering beneath the surface.

"What? Chess?" Tom replied, keeping up the façade. "You're not doing terribly at all; it's rather simple, really, you just –"

"Stop playing stupid, you know what I'm talking about," Avery snapped. Tom looked taken aback.

"Really, Avery, I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about," he said, becoming more and more amused by the second.

Avery's eyes narrowed. "Black. Malfoy. Lestrange. Goyle. Nott. Me. We're all purebloods. We all come from affluent families. And what of you? You're just some boy who claims to have a pure-blooded heritage, who grovels at the feet of his instructors for acknowledgement, who had, somehow, conned those of us with REAL blood purity into being his little, dependent, _parasitic_," he spat, "followers." His eyes flashed menacingly as he leaned forward. "How did you do it?"

Tom cast Avery an indulgent smile before looking at the chess board, fingering his pawn. _J'adoube_. When he looked up again, it was to see an avid Avery awaiting his reply. Tom stared deep into Avery's eyes, twirling the piece between his fingers on the board, before speaking slowly and deliberately. "You and your fellow 'purebloods' have always vastly underestimated those who aren't of similar purity to you. I don't claim to be a pureblood or otherwise. Why, you ask, are you all my – how did you say it? – 'parasitic followers?'" He paused, noting Avery's hypnotized expression with pleasure. He shrugged. "I haven't a clue. I've done nothing but be myself; whether or not you all like it, and have gravitated towards me, is your own decision, not mine. I've conned no one." Here, Tom gave a sly smile, continuing his manipulation of the pawn. "As for my intellectual achievements… well. It can't hurt to always be one step ahead, now, could it?" He smiled, the shadows generated by the torches caressing his face eerily. Avery shuddered, finally tearing his eyes from Tom's bottomless pits. Tom's smile broadened. "Life operates in strange ways, wouldn't you agree? Take chess, for example. Play the game right, and even the lowliest of pieces – the pawn – can become a queen, the most powerful player on the board. The player, however, often becomes reckless, and loses one of the two queens he has acquired if, indeed, he still retains the original. You can never have two queens at a time. One will always triumph over the other, even if they're on the same team."

Tom set the pawn down and moved his queen across the board.

"Checkmate, Avery."

Tom stood, gave a beatific smile in the shaken boy's direction, and headed up the steps into his dormitory, intent on getting some rest.

Avery sat for a long while after, staring blankly at the board, his cruel face lined with dread.

No, he would never again confront Tom Riddle; he was better to have as an ally, for to have him as an enemy would, surely, only end in disaster.

**X**

The year charged on brazenly, leaving the students of Hogwarts scrambling in its wake, trying to keep up. Tom alone of the first years kept pace, at times exceeding the steady trot of Time. Whenever he had the time to relax, Tom could always be found sitting in a remote corner of the library reading a thick tome, lost to all but the realm of knowledge.

On one of these such days in the middle of the winter holidays, Tom was sitting in his favorite nook in the library when he slammed the heavy book shut. He ran his dusty fingers through his hair, blowing out a breath in frustration. He'd been searching for weeks and weeks for evidence of his father in the magical world, coming up with absolutely nothing. He'd taken Avery's comments on his heritage to heart earlier that year, and was determined to extricate this mystery from the hands of anonymity even if it meant losing out on any free time or rest he had.

Tom closed his eyes and bowed his head over the table, massaging his temples weakly. "What I need," he said aloud to the deserted library, "is a clue, any at all, as to who I might be related." His brow creased in concentration, his ministrations to his aching head unable to provoke any insight on the matter. His frown deepened. "_Puer patrici_. Some clue that was. 'Boy of privilege. Boy of inheritance.' Doesn't mean a thing." Tom sighed, defeated for the time being. He waved his hand and the book flew back to its place deep within the library. He shouldered his bag and made his way out of the library, not understanding how it could have failed him.

The hairs rose on the back of his neck; Tom ignored them. He'd known for months now that someone was following him.

As he trudged out into the hallway, a pair of concerned blue eyes followed him before they disappeared altogether.

Tom had an unlimited amount of time on his hands to spend alone since all of his pureblooded doormmates had their lush mansions to return home to. Cygnus and his twin sister Walburga had invited Tom back to their home for the holidays, but had quickly rescinded their offer at the fierce look in his eyes that clearly said he was no charity case. The two had nearly fallen over themselves in their rush to apologize. Tom smirked at the memory.

To his utter surprise, on Christmas morning he'd awoken to presents under the tree in the Common Room. He'd received a pair of fine leather gloves from Malfoy and other such practical gifts from his peers; he'd amused himself with Professor Slughorn's present of a history of the wizarding world's most influential potioneers, and Professor Merrythought's model of an animated Lethifold (he'd asked her the week before break about them). Tom, of course, hadn't deigned to waste what little money he had on such frivolous things as presents. He had, however, received a rather lovely gift of books on Slytherin House's history as well as an advanced copy of Transfiguration and Defense theory from an anonymous person. The note attached was written in a loopy script, simply stating, "Have a Happy Christmas. I am sure you will enjoy these books greatly. The conquest of knowledge is, after all, a most noble undertaking."

Because Tom was looking at the ground and was pondering such things, it came as a surprise to him when he heard his name being called.

"Mr. Riddle! How nice to see you!" Tom glanced up, startled, into the twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore. "Working hard already on your assignments? I trust you aren't having any trouble?"

"No, sir," Tom replied politely, regaining his quiet semblance. "I was doing some… personal… research; I've already finished my workload for the holidays."

"Splendid! Then I'm sure you have some time for tea with me in my office?"

Tom cursed inside, realizing he couldn't refuse the professor; he had, after all, just told him he had nothing of import to do. With a neutral face he relented, "Of course." Dumbledore beamed down his long nose and motioned Tom into his office.

Dumbledore took two yellow candies from a jar on his desk and, unsticking them, offered one to Tom; when Tom declined, he shrugged and popped them both into his mouth, waving his wand in the direction of the tea set, setting two steaming cups down on the desk between he and Tom. Tom thanked him, taking a sip from his cup and placing it lightly back onto the saucer.

Tom had never been in a professor's office before, and was both impressed and amused by what he saw. Odd, whirring trinkets sat on stools and shelves, there was a Muggle Western toy-gun that was enchanted to, when shot, let out a puff of smoke and a flag that said, "BANG!" on it, a toy plane zoomed around the room, and nearly every surface was covered in books. Some, Tom noted, were ancient in appearance and clearly full of curriculum that wasn't taught at Hogwarts. His eyes gleamed. _What I wouldn't give to get my hands on one of them…_

His gaze eventually fell back to the Professor, who had been looking at him over his steepled fingers with a pleased expression.

"Did you enjoy the books I sent you for Christmas?" he inquired. Tom's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair.

"_You_ sent those?" he blurted out before he could get a hold of his emotions. In truth, had he known that it was Dumbledore who'd sent the books, he'd have probably returned them or never even touched them; as it was, he'd already read them, and now had no intention of doing any such thing. _Stupid old man!_ He complained to himself. _This only ever happens around Dumbledore!_ _I really need to work on my reactions around him…_

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled maddeningly. "Yes, I did; I suppose I forgot to sign it. It's so difficult, remembering what present belongs to whom, writing messages, that it is quite feasible I forgot such a significant detail." His smile widened. "I trust you've been putting them to good use?"

"Oh yes, I've been reading them whenever possible," Tom replied. "I _am_ curious, though – not to sound ungrateful, sir, – but – why did you send them? They're really advanced books and, if I'm not mistaken, were quite expensive and old, not to mention valuable…" Of all the teachers to have sent him the books, Dumbledore seemed to be the _least_ likely to have done so; not only was his track record against him, but he'd never done anything to _truly_ stand out in his class.

Dumbledore unstuck two more candies and popped them into his mouth.

"Well," he started, slowly twiddling his thumbs and looking at the plane zooming around the room, "I've heard such remarkable things from your other Professor's about your performance in their classes, but have yet to see such things of you in my class." He smiled in amusement down at Tom, who looked somewhat miffed. "I had hoped that the books, the Transfiguration and Defense in particular, would spur you on, give you more of an incentive, to shine in my class. There is no price on knowledge, Tom, and, in the spirit of Christmas, I felt giving my student a gift was – how do the Muggles say it? – apropos."

Tom tilted his head; he didn't understand. Why was Dumbledore being so nice to him? Was this his way of telling Tom he wished to ignore the past? _No – that would be foolish, which this man most certainly is not,_ he thought. It was a test; it had to be. People don't just give out presents for sentimental reasons, especially not in Tom's experience – all he had to do was look at Slughorn, who wished to have him as another trophy on his mantelpiece, and the other students, who wished to use his intelligence and notoriety for themselves. The old codger wanted something.

He nodded. "Thank you very much, sir."

"Not at all, Tom, not at all," Dumbledore waved before suddenly jumping to his feet. "I nearly forgot! I'll be but a moment, Mr. Riddle." Dumbledore walked across the room to a door, opened it, and disappeared inside. Tom sat rigidly, sure that his Professor was trying to trap him in some way. When he returned, it was with two small cloth pouches – one silver, the other black. He handed Tom the black one, but held on to the silver.

"The black one holds your allowance for the rest of the school year, but the silver one is actually a present."

"Present?" Tom asked, confused. "But it's no longer Christmas."

His Professor chuckled. "But Mr. Riddle! Don't you know what day it is?" At Tom's blank look, Dumbledore shook his head, letting out a jolly laugh. "You must have really been working hard, to not know that today is your twelfth birthday."

Tom's eyebrows surged once more to his hairline. Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, Tom." He handed over the silver pouch. Tom took it eagerly, trying not to let his enthusiasm best him. He reached into the bag and, when his fingers touched smooth leather, pulled it out to find a black, leather book. Dumbledore tapped it twice with his wand and the book expanded. It was a diary, the parchment edges gilded in gold. Tom ran his fingers over the supple leather, its earthy smell a divine perfume to his senses. When he looked up, it was to see the Professor watching him surreptitiously.

"It's enchanted," Tom said, eyes narrowed.

It was Dumbledore's turn to be shocked. His graying, auburn brows gambled upwards. "Very good. How did you know?"

Tom shrugged, his eyes returning to the gift his long, delicate fingers were unconsciously caressing. "I could feel it."

Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes belied his true feelings of apprehension. "Well, you're correct; it _is_ enchanted. I bought it at a Muggle store, and had one of my very good friends who deals with privacy spells charm it so that none but the writer – or owner, rather – could read what is written. All you have to do is write your name on the first page, and the book will automatically know that you are indeed who you say you are; anyone who attempts to write or read it as you will be unable to."

Tom looked down once more at the thin book. He felt with his magic for any indication that Dumbledore was lying or had placed any other spells upon it. He hadn't, in either respect. Tom smiled ingratiatingly and stood up, shaking hands with his Professor. "Thank you very much, Professor Dumbledore. I'll put it to good use."

"Of course, it was no problem at all. The book is also enchanted to not run out of pages so, while it may seem small, it will hold however much you wish to write in its pages." He patted Tom on the back. "Now run along, Mr. Riddle, and enjoy the rest of your birthday."

Tom nodded, thanked the Professor once more, and made his way back to the quiet solitude of the Slytherin Common Room.

**X**

Altogether too soon for his liking, the school year came to a close, and Tom boarded the train once more for Muggle London. The train ride passed in a scarlet blur, and as he and his new companions disembarked and promises were made to write and meet up over the summer holidays, Tom stepped through the magical platform into the dreary afternoon light.

It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

A/N: To answer any possible questions you may have on staff names and character names, here is my little explanation:

Professor Flitwick is extremely likely to have been a teacher. When first described in the books, it was as a small old man – for more you can see the Harry Potter Lexicon. The only teacher in this story that I made up is Professor Callahan, whom we will see more of in the story later; she's quite the interesting character if I do say so myself :D. Professor Binns is still the History teacher, and Professor Sinistra the Astronomy because I didn't feel like thinking up another meaningful name.

Students – Cygnus and Walburga were brother and sister (see Black family tree) but for purposes of the story I changed their birthdates to be in the same year as Tom and to be twins. Lestrange, Avery, Goyle, and Nott were all given first names and appearances by me. There are female Slytherins who will be making their appearance in the story in the next chapter, all with familiar last names, and first names that may or may not have been taken from the Black family tree. The next chapter will be the countdown – or is it count_up_ – to seventh year. It will be very long, longer than what I will normally write, so it is most likely going to take a while before you get to see it. On that note, yesterday was my 17th birthday – yay! – and now I will leave it at that. Feel free to ask me questions. Cheers, everyone!


	10. Chapter Eight

A/N: This chapter goes out to you, dear reader. But, most specifically, DobbyRoxMySox, for the little nudges of inspiration and for being fun to vent to and with. Good luck on your finals! I hope this makes you happy and gets you back to cracking those lovely jokes!

* * *

Chapter Eight

"_On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but _so_ brave, school prefect, model student…"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets__, Chapter 17, pg. 311)_

_

* * *

  
_

Year Two

It was, quite possibly, one of the worst things that could ever happen to him.

His return to the orphanage and the subsequent months that followed were marked by isolation, boredom, and extreme frustration.

He thought he would go mad.

Unable to use magic with the Trace upon him and with only the books he had read so many times to keep him company, Tom seethed with resentment.

New orphans had arrived who had to be taught respect. The old ones had to be whipped back into their fearful states. Ms. Cope had to be avoided. All in all, there was no way to truly describe the extreme relief and elation he felt when September 1st arrived to save him from the monotony of his summer. It wasn't until the horseless carriages had carried him to the castle and he was seated amongst his fellow Slytherins that he finally felt at peace.

The Sorting went well, with nearly a quarter of the new first years heading into Slytherin, the largest influx in several years. The feast was sumptuous, and soon after he fell straight to sleep once he was ensconced safely behind his bed-hangings.

**X  
**

"_He'ss here… The heir, he'ss here… Blood, I NEED BLOOD!"_

Tom started, whipping his wand out from beneath his pillow to face his attacker.

No one was there.

Puzzled, he slipped cautiously out of bed onto the freezing stone, dropping swiftly into a crouch. His eyes were narrowed, scanning the entire dorm as he sought a sign that would reveal an unfriendly mind. Nothing.

He stood up carefully, scratching his rumpled hair in confusion.

_Odd,_ he thought. _I could've sworn I really heard that voice…_ He furrowed his eyebrows and checked the watch that sat on his bedside table. 4:45 AM. Tom sighed and, further mussing up his already disheveled hair, gathered his clothes and toiletries for a hot shower, the voice having ended his night.

At 5:15 he emerged fully clothed from the bathroom. As it was too early for breakfast to be served, Tom grabbed his bag and headed for the library.

The castle was soothing in its dark quiescence, its halls lacking in bodies, the moon still visible in the slowly lightening sky. Tom silently pushed the library doors open and found his favorite table. After dropping his books off, he wandered up and down the stacks, greeting his old and secretive friends, hardly paying attention to where it was that he was going.

Something fluttering on the floor caught his eye. Tom bent down to retrieve it, but it danced out of his nimble fingers and around a corner. He chuckled, following it. His eyebrows rose when he saw it all the way at the other end of the stack. Walking briskly and feeling just a bit ridiculous, Tom bent once more to grab it just as it veered sharply to the left.

"Alright," he huffed, irritated. "Lead a way, you stupid – you stupid – you – ugh!" And he threw his hands into the air, glad that no one was around to see this humiliation.

He followed it up and down the library, around many corners, slowly coming to the realization that he was now in a part of the library he'd never seen before. For the first time, he felt a bit of apprehension. Tom knew that there was no dark magic present – he'd already felt for it – yet, all the same, it was a magic he was unfamiliar with. Nowhere in Hogwarts, A History, did it detail hidden areas in the library ("Although," he reasoned, "such accounts wouldn't be written down; preservation of a secret and all that.")

Still, he pursued the phantom paper, until, quite suddenly, it disappeared in a shower of silver sparks, just as he was becoming fed up with the whole adventure.

Tom stopped short and pulled out his wand. There was old magic, ancient magic, at work, and the older it was, the more unpredictable it could be. He was turning in a circle when he saw it.

A snake.

Protruding from the stack of books just above his head.

Its emerald eyes glinted in the flickering lamp-light, its painted, silky-black and silver body undulating between the books.

Tom raised his wand, eyes glittering madly.

"_Ssstop."_ The snake spoke.

Tom tilted his head.

"_Are you the heir?"_ it hissed menacingly.

"_Am I whose heir?" _Tom inquired.

"_Ssalazzar Sslytherin'ss, of coursse,"_ it scoffed.

Tom raised an eyebrow, his smile barely contained. _"What if I am?"_

The snake ignored him, instead choosing to slither onto his shoulders, its thick body wrapping around his torso in a close embrace. Its tongue flicked at his ear as its head became level with it. _"Are you, or are you not, Tom Marvolo Riddle, son of Merope Evelyn Gaunt and Thomas John Riddle Senior?"_

Tom stroked the beautiful snake's body, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from it. He turned his black gaze on the snake's emerald pools and said, _"Yess. I am he."_

"_Then welcome, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Welcome home." _The snake then proceeded to sink its fangs deep into Tom's neck, and he blacked out.

**X  
**

**Slap.**

"Wake up."

**Slap.**

"Tom, get up!"

**Slap.**

"Malfoy, maybe he needs Madam Aegrassus."

"Nah, she'll just make him worse, the old bat."

"What about her helper, Pomfrey?"

"No, Tom'll be pissed if we get anyone."

**Slap.**

"Slap me one more time, Malfoy, and you'll be singing soprano for the rest of your life," Tom growled. "I'm up, you moron."

Malfoy hastily took a few steps back as Black chuckled from somewhere above his head.

Tom groaned and rolled over in his soft bed.

Wait – his _bed_?

Tom's eyes were open in a flash. He threw the covers back and jumped out of bed, stumbling a bit in his woozy state. Malfoy went to help him but Tom just shook him off. "I'm fine," he said tersely. "Don't you all have _things_ to do?" he asked in a voice that brooked no argument. His dormmates fled the room; it wasn't until they were gone that Tom sat back down on his bed, rubbing his neck.

He was in his pajamas. The clock read 7:30 AM – he was going to miss breakfast, not that he really cared at the moment. He did a quick reconnaissance of his surroundings.

His watch was on the table.

His toiletries on his trunk at the foot of his bed.

His towel hung over by the boilers.

His robes were hanging by the handle of his wardrobe.

His shoes –

"Hold it," he muttered.

Tom quietly sauntered over to the wardrobe and touched his robes.

"_Not_ where I put you last night."

He fingered the soft material and the smirk that was already on his face grew into a smile which, in turn, became a wide, toothy, malignant grin as he whooped and pumped his fist into the air.

"Slytherin's heir. I'M Slytherin's HEIR!"

Tom's eyes gleamed. He'd _known_ that there was a reason he'd felt an affinity for the man when he'd first opened the book on dark wizards the summer of his first year. Parseltongue, the ornaments in the common room, everything… it had all pointed to this end.

He continued to grin as he got dressed once more for the day. He kept right on grinning as he walked rapidly through the halls to his first class of the morning, his tall, imposing figure meeting no resistance. The smile, dimmed somewhat to avoid questioning, remained on his face for the entire day, a secretive shimmering present in his eyes. The girls swooned at his magnified attractiveness, the boys scratched their heads in jealousy, and all who met him that day wondered at his ambiguous expression, pressing themselves upon his presence; everyone wanted a part in it.

Tom Riddle was Slytherin's heir. And no one, _no one_, could do a thing to stop him.

The wheels of his future had been set into motion.

**X  
**

A pearly-white figure looked on in satisfaction. He would watch young Riddle, watch as he rose to meet and tango with his destiny.

The Simian face twisted hideously into a grin. He knew his heir would do great things.

Salazar Slytherin stroked the black and silver snake that was draped loosely around his upper body and gingerly touched the mark on his own neck. His connection to the boy was secure.

* * *

Year Three

The handsome fourteen-year-old boy stared up at the black sky, the stars twinkling brightly back at him. The roof-tiles of the Astronomy tower felt soft to his aching back (he'd charmed them to feel so), and his invisible body sighed in exhaustion. The brutal February wind howled around him, nearly freezing him to the edifice, but Tom Riddle could hardly care. He wanted to find that snake again. He wanted to know what had happened to him that first day of second year. He wanted to know whose bloody voice he kept hearing at all hours of the night. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

The night sky was reflected back in his colorless eyes, and he sighed once more. It all felt like a dream, some wonderfully amazing dream, one that he was terrified to wake from. Tom shook his head and stood up, stretching luxuriously. "Tempus," he whispered, and silvery numbers shot out from his fingertips to read 1:32 AM. He brushed back a rebellious lock of hair. He should probably be getting back to the common room.

Tom walked to the edge of the roof. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he dove straight down into the air. He caught the window ledge easily and, fluidly, swung himself to safety, landing on his toes.

Readjusting his robes and making sure his hair was in order, the still invisible Tom walked through the castle towards his dorm.

Tomorrow – or today, rather – was Saturday and a Hogsmeade weekend. While everyone else would be out in the little ramshackle town, Tom would be hidden in the library, concocting and researching ways to rid himself of the Trace (_"After all,"_ he thought, _"there's nothing special about a stupid town, even if it is completely magical. Why would I go and waste my money on frivolous foolery? Stupid, the lot of them…"_). It had to – no, it _needed _to– be done before the end of the school year, before his promised return to that awful place, for, if he had to go an additional summer unable to perform magic, he would surely die from another boring chorus of the previous "vacation."

He already had an idea of what to do, resolving to use the time when the majority of the school would be absent to experiment with the potion he'd been formulating. In fact, since he was already up and about, with nary a person to stop him, he should go and –

"_Heir… come find me…Ssave the sschool… Awaken me!"_

Tom froze, eyes dilating. He rushed over to the dungeon's damp wall and placed his ear flush against it, listening hard. After a few seconds of hearing nothing, he continued his trek to his dorm, his previous plans of skulking about the castle forgotten. With a whispered, "Lust," he entered the common room to see a flash above one of the tables. He walked over to it, despite his annoyance with all of these mysterious "coincidences," and looked down at the table. There, in a jagged script, were these words on a piece of crumbling parchment:

'_You are getting closer. Continue your search, but be warned: if _it_ is not found before your sixteenth celebration, it shall be lost to you forever. Seek your answers from the Hogwarts Four.'_

There was no signature.

Tom crumbled the note in his fist. "You couldn't have just _told_ me, you nitwit?" he snarled. His ire lit the paper in his hand on fire, flames licking the sides of his hand, he himself remaining unscathed. Walking over to the dying embers contained in the hearth before him, he blasted his own holocaust into it, crackling with immense satisfaction as the flames grew to an awesome size. The hellish fire danced in his own eyes as he bared his teeth at the long-dead note. Without warning he spun on his heel, his cloak whipping around behind him, stepping lightly up the stairs to his dorm.

**X  
**

March came and went, April melted into May, and still, Tom Riddle held sway over the school.

On a Saturday afternoon the first week of May, Tom Riddle was to be found seated in the Potions' Professor's office, sipping tea and avidly listening to a tale of his days as an apprentice. Or so it seemed, at any rate.

"And then, if you would believe it, I mistook the wormwood for the root of Asphodel and my entire cauldron exploded! It caught every other liquid – and believe me, there were many, considering the other apprentices had left their potions to simmer – on fire!" His rotund belly jiggled as he boomed with laughter, and Tom laughed along heartily. "Oh, dear boy, what fond memories does this bring back! But tell me what is on your mind, I'm sure you didn't come here to listen to an old man's ramblings."

Tom's eyes widened innocently as he said, "But sir, I love to listen to your stories! They're absolutely fascinating, especially the one about the vampire who was chased up that tree by the girl you worked with…"

In truth, this was the moment that Tom had been building up to. It never hurt to get a person into a pleasant, talkative mood, especially one concerning themselves, when trying to obtain sensitive information from them.

Slughorn laughed and sent a roguish wink Tom's way. He wagged his sugar-coated finger at him. "Your flattery and handsome innocence will get you everywhere, Tom. I should know!" he chuckled.

Tom smiled and said, "Well, sir, there was something I wished to ask. After all, you probably know most about the subject, what with all of your connections and such…" Here he paused, making sure his Professor's attention was piqued. "Sir," he said, attempting (and succeeding) to look nervous as he shifted in his seat with downcast eyes, "Sir, what do you know of the Chamber of Secrets?" he looked up anxiously and then quickly averted his eyes, going for the maximum effect.

Slughorn leaned back and placed his hands over his stomach. "Ahh. The Chamber of Secrets. Haven't you read up on it in Hogwarts, A History? No no, don't answer that," he waved his hand at Tom who had just opened his mouth, bashfully, to answer. "I've no doubt you've already searched the entirety of the library, being the excellent student that you are; it isn't exactly a subject the library will have sources on. Very well," he sighed. "I'll tell you what I know. It's not much, mind you," he interjected at the happy, hopeful look on Tom's face, "but it's something.

"Of course you are aware of how the school was founded," he stated, "as well as Salazar Slytherin's removal from the school. In those days magic was a wild, natural entity, difficult to harness and much more prevalent in the world, especially on the edges of magical forests such as ours. It took a very powerful wizard indeed to rein it in and then unleash it in the manner desired without killing himself.

"Slytherin was, perhaps, one of the strongest of the Founders, his powers only matched by those of his best friend – and, later, enemy – Godric Gryffindor. It was the two of them who built the magical framework of the castle; Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff had drawn the prints. The commonly-held belief was that the Chamber was built secretly during this time as a private study for Slytherin.

"This is a lie. And also where the little aside on magic comes in.

"You see, Salazar Slytherin didn't build the Chamber until a few months before he left the school." Slughorn nodded sagely at Tom's look of surprise. "Of course you realize such implications as to his health. Slytherin – according to a source – was able to manipulate the magic inherent in the Forbidden Forest _and _the castle itself to create his Chamber. The effects on his person were, to say the least, disastrous – hallucinations, paranoia – and his strong distrust and aversion to Muggleborns was heightened exponentially.

"His magic, still powerfully strong, took on a mind of its own. He became unstoppable, inconsolable. He only left his friends – former friends, excuse me – intact and alive because some small, still sane part of him realized what was going on. In Gryffindor's memoirs, which are held in a deep vault in the Department of Mysteries (I've never seen them; this story comes from a former student, Gianna Gottlieb, a fine example of an Unspeakable.), he wrote about how Slytherin grasped his robes and muttered a quick explanation of what happened before his magic took him over again.

"Now, why he built the Chamber to begin with, we can only speculate. Gryffindor wrote that as Slytherin left the grounds, he cursed the school to be preyed upon by a monster of terrible proportions, so that it might be purged of all those unworthy to study magic in its hallowed halls."

The man tapped his nose and winked at Tom as he continued.

"As it so happens, my first year teaching there was a Dark Romanian wizard who was called in to inspect the school for evidence of the Chamber – every so often there is a renewed interest in it – and a very curious thing happened." Here he stopped for dramatic effect. Tom was leaning forward eagerly in his seat, somehow still retaining the appearance of merely scholarly interest.

"What, sir? What happened?"

Slughorn chortled at his eager insistence.

"In the middle of walking down the second-floor hallway, he stopped dead. His face went as white as a sheet, all the blood completely drained from it. He began to shake his head, and then, very suddenly, he took off running down the corridor. The man wouldn't stop until he reached Hogsmeade!

"He wasn't due to leave until the following day. The other teachers felt he must be a bit loony, and left him alone. I, however," here he puffed out his chest importantly, "decided to go visit him at the Three Broomsticks. When we met, he'd clearly been drinking one too many Firewhiskies – his eyes were bloodshot – and he was trembling and slurring his words.

"Well. It was quite easy to get him to talk after a bit more – ah – _persuasion_. He was in the middle of telling me that he was a Parseltongue – learned it somehow – and had heard a monstrous hissing – _"Blood… I smell Blood!"_ – when the door flew open of its own accord. After that he wasn't too keen on speaking, babbling on about monsters and things that were out to get him… It was his account that truly inspired me to believe in the validity of the Chamber."

Tom leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then he smiled, a beautiful smile, and stood up from his seat. "Thank you so much, Professor," he said gratefully, "you've really helped me out."

Slughorn chuckled, reaching over to pour himself some more mead. "Of course, my boy, of course! Anything for such a bright student as yourself."

Tom turned to go. Slughorn was digging into his crystallized pineapple box when suddenly Tom spoke again.

"Oh, and Professor. One more thing."

"Yes, my boy?" he said brightly, rummaging around for a pineapple slice.

"I can't really have you remembering any of this."

"Hmm?" Slughorn said, confused.

When Tom turned back to his Professor, it was with a maniac edge to his depraved eyes. Slughorn paled in fear.

"Stupefy."

He struck Slughorn full in the face with the jet of red light. Quickly he moved around the desk, nearly floating in his finesse, and took the overweight man's face in his hands. Tom's thumbs found his temples and, closing his eyes, he focused hard on extracting the entire memory of their encounter. He sifted with nimble fingers through his mind, removing all possible residue of their meeting. Tom then planted a new memory there, one in which he was drinking tea alone and re-labeling Potions ingredients.

After delving once more into Slughorn's mind to make sure an accomplished Legilimens would be fooled, he withdrew from both mind and room and left for the library, the exquisite smile still in place. Professor Slughorn never found out.

Someone else did.

But there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

His usually twinkling blue eyes were dim behind his half-moon glasses.

* * *

Year Four

"Miss Hopkirk, might I speak with you for a moment?"

The young witch with light brown flyaway hair looked slightly frazzled by the amount of paperwork before her. She was muttering, searching for a piece of paper, seeming not to have noticed the thin man with the eccentric appearance in her office.

"I put you down there, picked _you_ up, placed you _here_, turned around and moved the plant, put the plant up top, sat down on a thumbtack, and then - AHA! Gotcha!" She grabbed the paper and waved it in the air, kissing it in relief. "I _knew_ I hadn't lost you!"

The man watched on in amusement for several seconds before clearing his throat, ending the young witch's jig.

"Ms. Hopkirk?"

She stopped dancing, shocked, before blushing to the very roots of her hair. Very carefully, she placed the paper on her chair and took off her spectacles, setting them down on her desk.

"P-Professor Dumbledore? H-how – how long have you been standing there?" she squeaked, mortified.

His blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses. "Long enough, I daresay." She blushed even harder, if such a thing were possible. Dumbledore shook his head, trying not to laugh at the poor girl's obvious embarrassment. "And please, it has been several years since I was your teacher – call me Albus."

"Of-of course, Prof – I mean, Albus," she replied. Mafalda Hopkirk straightened her robes before sitting down in her chair and then standing back up, having sat on top of her recently recovered paper. "Please, take a seat." She gestured towards the chair in front of her small desk in the cubicle.

Dumbledore sat down, Mafalda following suit.

"How can I help you, sir?" she inquired, having corralled her professionalism once more.

"I heard that you are now working in the Improper Use of Magic office – how do you like it?"

"Oh, well, it's alright, I suppose," Mafalda said hurriedly. "It's just a bit – hectic – at the moment, since it's summer and everything and students are experimenting with magic and the adult bigots are also being particularly nasty for some reason and, sir, I hate to be rude, but can I do something for you? I'm awfully busy, I'm so sorry, this is just a really chaotic time for me, I'm trying to get a raise and a promotion and – "

Professor Dumbledore smiled and raised his hand, immediately silencing her frenetic stream of consciousness. "It's alright, Mafalda, I completely understand. I, too, was young and ambitious once." A look of relief settled upon her face. "As much as I enjoy visiting with an old student, there was something I needed looked at… actually, someone." At her look of confusion, he specified. "A student."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise.

"If he or she has been doing magic – the student is underage, of course? – sorry, ridiculous question – we'd have been notified. By the Trace," she clarified. Dumbledore nodded.

"Yes, well, this particular student… I fear he has found a way around the Trace, or modified it somehow. Is there a way to check?"

Mafalda chewed on the inside of her cheek, considering. "Come with me," she said finally, standing up and walking to the door. "I'll take you to the Department of Mysteries and get this sorted out."

The two walked out of the small, cramped cubicle, down the hall and out the door to the gates of the lift. Stepping inside, they rode it down to the ninth level, walked past the courtroom doors and into the circular, blue room. When the door slammed shut, Mafalda turned to Dumbledore.

"You can't tell anyone this, but I'm also training to be an Unspeakable," she whispered. "Every Ministry department has one of us in there, though no one but the Unspeakable knows it. I can take you to the room where the Trace information is located because of that." She smiled slightly, her hair coming out messily from its bun. The two waited for the doors to stop spinning before Mafalda looked around and, unhesitatingly, took the door to the far left, Dumbledore following behind her.

As the door swung open, a room full of tiny hour glasses and a bell-jar with a bird in it was revealed. Mafalda looked around for a second before taking the door to her immediate right to expose a room with several teams of witches and wizards peering into long, thin tanks full of different colored liquids that didn't meld together; rather, they coexisted side-by-side, sliding over one another as the men and women sifted through them.

One wizard glanced up as they entered, a grin breaking over his features. "Ms. Hopkirk! What a pleasant surprise!"

Mafalda smiled in return. "Mr. Bode, this is Professor Dumbledore. He has a question about one of his students' Trace's."

The young wizard, Mr. Bode, glanced away from Mafalda and to Dumbledore. "Professor, it's been a while, hasn't it? How are you doing?"

"Just fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Wonderful, wonderful," he said, bouncing on his feet, full of lively energy. The others ignored him. "What's your student's name, then?"

Dumbledore's smile faded, the brightness of his eyes diluted. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Bode nodded. "Tom Riddle. Very powerful student."

Dumbledore furrowed his eyebrows. "You know him?"

A half-smile made its way across Bode's face. "I sometimes like to look at the different aura's in the tanks – that's what the Trace is, after all, a bit of one's aura. It returns to the body at the age of seventeen, so there's no way of tracking a person by such means once they're of age – to see the different potential. It's absolutely fascinating, when you know what to look for." Dumbledore tilted his head in interest. "Anyway, that's not really something I can talk about, but suffice it to say that I saw magic active in his Trace when he was very young, and over the years it grew stronger and stronger to the point where flashes would come out of the tub and ripple the very fabric of the air. Interesting, _really _interesting."

He sighed loudly, lost in his own thoughts. He shook himself, looking back at Dumbledore. "Let's take a look, shall we? Come here, Professor, come take a look. Now, normally we aren't allowed to let civilians see so much of the Department, but I've been given special instructions to allow you to have access to certain information. Not entirely sure why," he said, puzzled, "but I don't question orders."

They were looking down into a tank in a far corner of the room, the many different colors twirling slowly around one another, each one pulsing slightly with life. Bode took out his wand and stuck it into the tub. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Nothing seemed to happen. But then, as though it were a vacuum, the colors began to swirl around the tank, faster and faster, and in the middle, a hole, a black hole, and from the very depths of this hole an even darker black, an unnatural black, seemed to creep forth slowly, sluggishly, trying to take the other colors with it, trying to swallow them whole. It rose to the surface, the darkest black there could ever be, with little spots of silver lighting it up as only stars can on a moonless night.

"Are they normally so… _thick_?" Dumbledore asked.

Bode shook his head. "Only the truly powerful. And they only get thicker as the person ages and becomes stronger."

Tom's Trace finally surmounted the lip of the tub, folding in on itself as it twisted in the air like a worm on the sidewalk after it has just rained. Bode used his wand to stretch it out until it finally stilled.

He peered into it, mumbling and prodding the black manifestation, so much at odds with the other brilliant colors in the tank. Dumbledore watched, brows crinkled to form a V on his forehead.

Mr. Bode sighed and tapped it one last time before forcing it back into the vat with the others.

He turned to Dumbledore.

"There's nothing wrong with it. Hasn't been tampered with. He hasn't been using magic."

Dumbledore nodded in resignation.

"I suppose I didn't really expect anything less," he whispered quietly to himself. Then, more loudly, "Thank you, Mr. Bode, for your help."

Bode clapped the Professor on the back. "Any time, sir! It was a pleasure seeing you again. And you, Mafalda," he said peering around Dumbledore to wink at the silent girl who blushed at the attention. "Take care, you two!"

As Mafalda and Dumbledore left the Department of Mysteries and parted at the Atrium, Dumbledore couldn't help wondering what could make a person's aura so dark and viscous as Tom's.

Meanwhile, not too far away, Tom Riddle sat in his bedroom at the orphanage, directing mosquitoes into a line and lighting them on fire one by one with just a wave of his wand.

**X  
**

"My dear _friends_," the cloaked figure hissed upon his throne, black eyes hidden beneath a hood. "The person sitting before us has committed a great wrong, has he not?" Jeers followed the pronouncement, a trembling form lying prostrate at their feet, sniveling in fear.

"I-I don't know who you are! _Any _of you! Please, just let me go!"

"Ah, I don't think I will, _filth_. Although your good manners are quite commendable at such a time," the figure sneered. The other cloaked bodies laughed at their leader's words. "Your very existence is a stain on this earth. But come, let's be frank with one another. Gaze upon the man you have offended."

The man – what else _could_ he be? – lowered his hood with a dramatic flair, and the boy's eyes widened in shock.

"Tom _Riddle_?" he yelped.

A devilish smile slid onto Tom's face.

"At your service, Matthew Aaron."

"B-but – why? I thought – I thought you were – "

"Nice?" he interjected with wide eyes and a mocking stammer. He crooked his finger and leaned forward. "I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Matthew." His eyes glittered. "Things aren't always as they seem." Tom reclined back on his throne, leg hanging over the side carelessly. He looked at his fingers and picked at a cuticle, black hair falling in delicious waves over his eyes. "Take care of him," he said dismissively.

The six cloaked figures howled with laughter, closing in on Matthew Aaron, hunting him with predatory hunger.

"No – no – Please – _please!_" but his cries of terror went unanswered as his body was flung around the room and manipulated in horrifying ways. Tom Riddle observed his zealots, amused.

Several hours and a wiped memory later, Matthew Aaron woke in the third floor corridor, strung up in the rafters. Below him, on the floor, painted with a neat flourish was one word.

Beware.

**X  
**

He was sitting in Divination, doodling in his journal as everyone took notes from the textbook. He'd been researching over the last several months how to create and perform the Animagus change and knew that tonight, on all Hallows Eve, he'd do it. He'd see his form revealed to him and master it. It wasn't even that he needed to become one; he was already adept at the many arts of secrecy and subterfuge. Tom wanted to do it just because he _could_. And maybe, just maybe, it would help him, make him more worthy, to find the Chamber.

Tom traced the same drawing over and over again, hardly aware of what he was even doing. It was his last class of the day, and it couldn't end soon enough.

The quiet scratches of the other students' quills lulled him into a sort of trance. He felt as though time were slowing down, coming deliberately to a stop. His hooded eyes followed the motions of his own quill, around and around. He was on the edge of finding something very important out, just a few more seconds was all it would take.

Life had other plans.

Cygnus passed him a note which fluttered on top of his journal. Tom closed his eyes, reeling his temper into check. It wouldn't do for him to make the boy explode as he so wished he could; after all, Black was a most faithful… _follower_. He set the quill down calmly and closed the journal with measured purpose, sliding the note out as he did so. He unfolded the message.

_Celia is staring at you again._

Tom resisted the impulse to set the dunce on fire. _This _was what he'd been interrupted for? Some stupid, social-climbing girl, _staring_ at him? Hardly able to contain his displeasure, he answered tidily with a sneering, _"And?"_, passing the note fluidly back to Black.

_She likes you. Why don't you ask her to Hogsmeade today? Then you can take her to the Halloween feast and the dance afterwards._

_**Now why would I **_**do **_**such a **_**stupid **_**thing?**_

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

Tom sighed and set the offensive paper on fire under the desk. Cygnus cringed, finally realizing that he'd interrupted Tom from something important. Tom glowered once more, and when Cygnus finally turned away to go back to his notes, Tom opened the journal again and continued his tracing. He looked into the cave with the large, slitted eyes and curling smoke rippling out from its bowels. Tilting his head, he contemplated the drawing. What secrets had it been attempting to impart on him? What information could it have shared? He'd been close, _so_ close, to learning it, and now he knew that the chance had been lost. For the moment, at least. But his time was running out with exactly a year and two months left before the Chamber would be forever lost to him.

The serpentine eyes bore into his own. Tom ran his finger lightly over the pupil, hardly even touching it.

"_Why _wouldn't _you?"_ Cygnus' words reverberated in his mind.

Why indeed? Why couldn't he bring himself to touch a woman? Why wasn't he attracted to any of the girls at Hogwarts?

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

He wasn't a poofter either. He just wasn't intrigued by anyone. Celia was the most lusted after girl in his year, by boys of all houses and ages. Even if he wasn't interested, why couldn't he bring himself to _use_ her? As dull as it was to, ah, _service_ himself, it seemed preferable to allowing her or any other female in the castle to help him out.

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

He could have any girl he wanted. He heard their thoughts, knew how they craved him. It would be only too easy. And if he didn't want them to remember, well, making them forget wouldn't be a problem. Tom saw Celia looking at him coyly, trying to garner his attention. He glanced away, repulsed.

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

He recalled what the Sorting Hat had once told him: _Be not afraid, when the time comes, to open your heart…_

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

Things like love and affection make people into tools to be manipulated. They make you weak.

_Why _wouldn't _you?_

The eyes in the cave stared back at him.

_Why __**wouldn't **__you?_

And he whispered back, "I don't know."

**  
X  
**

He'd hidden himself away in the secret passage behind the mirror, placing the strongest repelling and secrecy charms that he knew around it in order to keep from being disturbed. With the potion simmering and the circle drawn with its five points, Tom was ready to begin the Animagus ritual. He double-checked everything, making sure what he had was exactly as the book described – thin, maroon liquid – a shimmering haze above the cauldron – a five-ringed circle drawn in red, blue, white, green, and yellow, respectively – and his wand.

Tom looked at his watch: 4:03 PM. He had until seven-thirty, at which time the feast would begin. Everyone fourth year and above was out of the castle, third and down setting up their own party in an empty classroom for their own special Halloween Ball.

Tom closed the book and set it outside the circle. The potion sparkled in front of him, and he sat down, cross-legged, in front of it. His stomach leapt into his throat.

"I call upon the Mother Earth to shape my form," he began softly. "I call upon Brother Water to fuel it. I call upon Father Fire, that he might lend to it the spark of life. I call upon Sister Air to nurture it." His voice had grown in volume, and he now hummed, closing his eyes and stirring the potion. It turned a deep, vine green.

"I call upon the Creator, Akasha, to lend me safety as I change. May you roam forever free."

His humming began to grow in volume, turning into a wordless song, his voice, sweet and lilting, harsh and unforgiving, cool and collected, safe and secure. The different melodies wove together to create one large song until, at its very climax of beauty and terror, he drank the cup full of potion and light began to flash behind his eyes.

He was wriggling in the dirt, trying to find the surface.

He was cavorting through the air, performing impossible aerial feats.

He swam through the waters, turning and rolling, slim and sleek.

He sprinted across the land, tattooing a relentless rhythm on the ground.

The images continued to cycle, none of the forms feeling exactly right, but slowly, ever so slowly, they began to come to a halt, and when he opened his eyes, he was extremely confused. For, glowing in the air before him, not one, but _two_ silvery forms had coalesced into two very different shapes: A monstrous Vampire Bat and a magnificent, coiled Anaconda. He reached out a hand and quietly, full of awe and wonder, stroked first the snake and then the bat. The two leaned into his touch, and when he finally withdrew, they swooped down on him and entered his mouth.

He _became_ the Vampire Bat, thrilling in the night, strong and unafraid. He _became_ the Anaconda, coiling and uncoiling, squeezing tree trunks into a fine powder with unadulterated power. He was both bat and serpent, taking on and learning their separate traits and lives, never having known such dynamism in his entire life. When he opened his eyes once more, it was with a new knowledge, a new understanding, of life itself.

He checked his watch; it was now 6:45. Tom gathered all of his materials and willed a strong, impenetrable ward around the secret passage; it was _his_ place now, and no one else's. To anyone but himself, it would appear that a massive cave-in had occurred, and no matter how hard they tried to remove it, it would be impossible.

Hurrying down to the dungeons, Tom cleaned the cauldron of any signs of the potion and banished it to the Potions classroom. He raced to his dorm, slowed to a leisurely pace, promptly whispered, "Blood is gold," and sauntered into the common room. Tall, dark-haired and intelligent, his presence was immediately made known to all. At fourteen years old and six feet tall, the girls called out suggestive hellos and the boys nodded in respect. Tom ignored them and swiftly climbed the stairs to his bed.

Within fifteen minutes he was showered and in a clean set of robes, the other boys in his dorm waiting for him. Tom ignored them, wrapped up in his own elation, hardly noticing the looks they exchanged as they followed him downstairs and out of the common room.

"Tom!" a girl squealed behind him, but he kept on walking, disregarding the voice as he lengthened his strides. He heard hurried footsteps and then felt a small hand latch onto the crook of his elbow.

He ceased all motion. The boys came to a stop as well, eyes wide, knowing that the girl had just made a massive mistake.

Tom turned his cold eyes on Celia Greengrass; she smiled provocatively, trailing her fingers up and down his arm, unaware of the dangerous waters she was now traversing.

"Tommy," she purred.

Tom winced.

"Tommy, I missed you at Hogsmeade today. Where were you?" she fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Working," he replied, a dangerous smile on his lips.

_Oh I need him to ask me out, he's so powerful and Mother wants me betrothed soon, ooh he's _so _delectable, too bad he's a halfy, but Mother need not know _– "But, dearest! The Professors didn't assign us anything because of the ball!"

His eyes remained blank, cold, the warning extremely apparent in his entire demeanor. The smile was still in place.

"Was there something you wanted, Celia?"

She was not to be deterred. She wanted his influence too much.

"Well, now that you mention it… How about you come to the dance with me as my date."

It wasn't a question.

Tom inclined his head, considering.

"No."

"Great, meet me – wait. What?"

Her eyes widened as his words finally registered in her head.

"Are you – did you just – what?" she exclaimed, flustered.

Tom smiled politely at the pained expression in the smaller girl's eyes. "I said, 'no.'"

"But – but – why?" _How could he say no, everyone wants me, I'm beautiful and rich, he's but a _half-blood_, probably less, how could he say no, he should be begging me _–

Utterly disgusted by everything he was hearing, finally allowing his contempt to shine through his façade, Tom pried off the fingers that were still clinging desperately to his arm and said, viciously, "I don't answer to you, Celia, nor do I need a reason. You may be rich and beautiful, if that's really what you and others think of yourself, but to me, you're just a desperate girl who wants to flaunt herself on the arm of the most powerful wizard in the school." His eyes flashed menacingly, and Celia took a step backwards. "I'll not be used," he snarled. "Now, get out of my way."

Tom swept away, his dormmates in tow, leaving the flabbergasted girl behind.

"So," he said, chipper, to Malfoy, who was too much in awe to be afraid, "what's for supper?"

* * *

A/N: I hope this made up for the really long wait. Life really loves to mess with me; I think it takes a sadistic pleasure out of it. I'm not going to explain myself, I feel bad enough already. Originally, Years 2-6 were going to be in here, but it got to be WAY too long; already, this is 31 pages, typed, on my computer. So now Years 5 and 6 will be making their debut in Chapter Nine. Never fear, it should be out fairly quickly, as the majority of it is already written in my notebook.

Now, for clarifications: Why did Tom erase the memory from Sluggy this time, but not when he's asking about Horcruxes? In my mind, he's still stoppable at this point, and Tom knows it; therefore, all evidence of his activity in regards to the Chamber must be destroyed. By the time he's asking about Horcruxes, it's too late for him to be stopped; he's too powerful. Next, SLYTHERIN: Why is he in this story? Well, I'd really rather wait till next chapter to answer that, but suffice it to say, it's an obstacle that Tom needs to overcome to become his own person – he needs a way out from under the burden of ancestry, muggle and magical. Ambiguous? Yes. Sorry about that… As for the Celia Greengrass incident. Is it really any wonder that Tom wants nothing to do with the opposite sex? This girl just wants to use him. The boys want to use him, too, but Celia does it in the guise of affection. Keep this in mind as the story progresses; it helps to understand his strong aversion to any sort of companionship, even "friends." Oh, and here's an interesting quote by JKR on Tommy dearest:

Has Voldemort or Tom Riddle ever cared for or loved anyone?  
No, never. [Laughter.] If he had, he couldn't possibly be what he is. You will find out a lot more about that. This is really different than my take. I figured you should be aware of her original intentions, and though I'm trying to stay as close to cannon as possible, this will be the BIGGEST discrepency of all.

Merope and Tom Sr.'s middle names are of my own invention, as is Celia Greengrass. The Trace, too, is my own, as is the room it's encapsulated in. That was a really fun scene to write, even if the length did sort of get out of hand. Oh, and Matthew Aaron was briefly in Chapter Six - he was the first one to be Sorted. Made it into Hufflepuff, I believe. Okay, that's all I can really think of at the moment… As questions are asked, I'll post the answers on my profile for any who are looking for them. I really hope you enjoyed this – keep a look out for the next chapter! Reviews and criticism are much enjoyed; don't be afraid to drop in! Cheers, everyone!


	11. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"_You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins run the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother's side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry – I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets__, Chapter 17, pg. 314)_

"_Harry, obedience is a virtue I need to teach you before you die… Perhaps another little dose of pain?"_

_(__Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire__, Chapter 34, pg 667)_

_

* * *

_

Year Five

Tom was walking swiftly through Muggle London, the heat making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back. It was two weeks into his summer holidays and his homework was completely finished; he now was dedicating every possible moment of wakefulness to searching for the Chamber of Secrets. Time was running out, his sixteenth "celebration" (he grimaced at the thought) was looming threateningly over his head, and every second, every _moment_, was precious.

He turned right onto a side-street and after a few meters he came upon the Leaky Cauldron. Without so much as breaking his stride, he swung the doors open and swept through the dingy establishment into the back alley, where he tapped the required three bricks with his wand, and made his way through Diagon Alley.

He'd spent much of the past week in Gringotts and Flourish and Blotts pouring over genealogy charts in the hopes of catching sight of his wizarding father's line, the original Tom Riddle. At Hogwarts there had been no sign of him – no awards, no place on the Quidditch team, no records. However, that hardly meant anything – he could've gone to another wizarding school, been homeschooled, even. _Although_, a niggling, traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, _had be been homeschooled, wouldn't that mean he had enough money to leave to you? To _find_ you?_ Tirelessly, diligently, he poured over the many different annals and manuscripts, refusing to even consider the idea that his father might not have been a wizard, that it could be his _mother_, that _weakling_, the one couldn't possibly have _allowed_ herself to die if she'd been magical. No, he'd find his father and his link to Salazar Slytherin, and then, _then_, he'd be able to find the Chamber. He would not fail.

It was in such a mindset that Tom Riddle worked in that day and all those previously. He sat in a room off the main hallway of Gringotts, ignored by (and ignoring) the goblins, whom he'd been able to "persuade" to allow him to be there. It was during the last hours of daylight, not having paused to eat or use the toilets, that he found it. Found it, and immediately became enraged beyond all reason in his quiet way. Because there, there in that damned _book_, underneath the 1926 entry for births, below Gaumeda, Friedrich, was Tom Marvolo Riddle, son of Thomas John Riddle, _Muggle_, son of John Nathaniel Riddle, and Merope Evelyn Gaunt, daughter of Marvolo Gaunt. Deceased. _Witch_.

His pupils contracted as he sat there, staring at the book, _willing_ the two epithets of his parents to switch, for his father to be the wizard, his mother, the muggle. His magic leapt to his shaking fingertips, a gradually building wind whipped his dusty hair about. He ached to release it, to allow it to destroy the entire room and the building and its occupants with it, to hear the screams of the frightened and the dying, to create chaos. Instead he pulled back, pulled hard on the reins of his magic, stopped it from acting, much to its vexation.

_Not now_, he purred, attempting to soothe it. _Soon_.

He set his finger to the heavy vellum of the book and drew his finger across the evidence in a line, erasing all indications of his ever having existed. The other names and dates, insignificant things, really (or so he tried to convince himself), wriggled to fill the gap, effectively annihilating his disgrace from the world. Erasing _him_ from the world.

Lord Voldemort had been born.

He stood. All anger was gone. All sense of a great injustice done to him was gone. All that was left to him was calm, an unnatural calm, and the urge to _do _something. The corner of his mouth quirked. He knew what could be done.

Tom walked sedately from the room, walked out of the hall, walked out of Gringotts. Once he reached the cobbled stone streets that were Diagon Alley, he turned on the spot, disappearing without making a single noise. It was as if he'd never been.

He reappeared outside the gates to a stately mansion. A white peacock startled at his appearance, squawking indignantly at him. Tom merely looked at the bird. "Yes? Can I _help_ you?"

The bird shrunk back and then continued on its way, albeit a tad faster than usual. Tom shrugged and walked up the pathway to a pair of handsomely decorated doors. He rolled his eyes at the ostentatious display of wealth before knocking on the hard, rich surface. Almost immediately the door opened.

"How can Jessy be helping you, young Master?"

Tom looked down, surprised. Of course the Malfoy's, the wealthy prats, would have a House-Elf. "Yes. Is Abraxas Malfoy here? I need to have an… audience… with him."

The elf bobbed its head happily. "Of course, young Master, of course. Pleases would you come inside?" The tiny creature turned around and Tom followed her – it was a _her_, right? – into the Manor. His feet sank into the plush emerald green carpet as he was taken into a room that reeked of opulence. Tom's lip curled.

"Can Jessy gets yous anything to drink?"

"No," he said, curt. "Just get Abraxas."

The elf bowed profusely. "Okays, young Master. But whos should I says is here?"

Tom frowned. "Tom Riddle."

As soon as Jessy Apparated from the room he flinched. _Tom Riddle_, he sneered. _That will be changing soon_.

He stood tapping his foot impatiently. Soon after she left, the sound of someone running down the stairs and yelling could be heard. Not even thirty seconds later Malfoy came skidding into the drawing room, panting heavily.

"T-Tom, wha-t is go-ing on?" he heaved.

Tom frowned at his impertinence. "We're going on a little field-trip. Grab your cloak."

Abraxas followed Tom out of his home and back to the narrow lane where, upon grabbing Tom's arm, they Apparated to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Cygnus was waiting outside for them.

"Did you notify the others?" Tom asked.

Cygnus nodded. "Avery, Nott, Lestrange, and Goyle will meet us there."

"Meet us _where_?" Malfoy whined, annoyed that he was the only one who was out of the loop.

Tom ignored him, choosing instead to pull up the hood of his black cloak over his all-black Muggle ensemble. Cygnus followed suit, as did Malfoy after. Tom held out his arms. The two boys clasped them, and they winked out of existence only to reappear in Diagon Alley.

The sun was below the horizon.

"Time for some fun," Tom whispered.

Cygnus and Abraxas released his arms and followed behind him, cloaks flapping around their ankles. The men and women still in the streets instinctively moved out of their way, Tom heading the group, Cygnus and Abraxas a few meters behind and to the sides. As they continued their walk they were joined by the other boys, quietly, covertly, phantom shadows stalking their prey, Tom, the leader of the menace.

A synchronized turn, and they're in Knockturn Alley. Night had descended fully, the boys truly shadows now. Tom tugged his hood lower over his face and continued on to a darkened shop. He held a finger up and the boys stopped moving. Creeping forward, Tom put his ear to the wall and closed his eyes, listening.

_Ahh, what a beautiful specimen, can't believe I actually swindled this out of her for only fifteen galleons, what a treat, what possibilities…_

Tom opened his eyes and inclined his head towards his companions before slipping his wand out and casting a silent "Alohamora." He felt for wards, trick wards, and, finding none, turned the doorknob, opening the shop door.

A bell tinkled.

Tom froze.

_Put this here, and then we'll get _you_, my sweet, and…_

He held two fingers up and curled them inwards, a signal. Tom moved forwards through the shop, the boys splitting up once inside, closing in on their objective. Now at the counter, Tom, seemingly alone, saw the greasy man before him tittering about with his subjects before clearing his throat. The man turned around, a perplexed furrowing of the eyebrows.

"How did you…"

Tom leered. "Silencio."

The man's eyes widened, he went to run away, but was tackled to the ground by ropes that appeared from nowhere.

"Expelliarmus," and the wand flew out of the shopkeeper's hand and into Tom's.

"Swan," he murmured, and Cygnus came forward at the sound of his code name. "Draco." Malfoy stepped up beside him. "Nero," and in came Avery, a cruel look in his eyes.

"Swan and Draco, grab Mr… Burke, is it? Mr. Burke. Nero, are you ready for your… initiation?"

Avery sneered. "Yes…Azrael."

"Then clasp my right hand in your own."

Avery hesitated. He looked around at the other boys in attendance, knowing that there was no turning back. He gazed into Tom's face once more. It had been a long time since that conversation over chess. How far they'd all come since that point.

He stuck out his right hand. Tom clasped it in his own; long, unnaturally long, fingers curled around them in a vice.

"Do you, Nero, swear your fidelity to me and me alone?"

"I do."

A red flame encircled their joined hands.

"Do you, Nero, swear to uphold the creed of the Death Eaters, no matter what it is that I, your Master, command you to do?"

"…"

"Nero?" he inquired unpleasantly.

"Yes, yes, I do," he snarled.

A second flame coupled with the first.

"Do you, Nero, swear upon pain of death, that, should one of our comrades ever find a way around this oath, however unlikely it may be, and attempt to harm my person or our cause in any way whether it be through physical trauma or by word of mouth, that you will come to me and tell me of this new enemy?"

"I do."

A third flame made a shield around the other two, flaring brightly before dissipating in a shower of sparks into the air.

A triumphant glimmer. "Then let us commence. Hold out your left arm."

Avery unclasped his hand from Tom's and held out his arm, Tom sauntering closer to him. He took Avery's arm gently, carefully rolling up the boy's sleeves to reveal smooth, flawless skin. Holding the arm tightly in his grip, Tom took his wand and pressed it into Avery's flesh. He began to chant in another language, a dark language, and the shadows in the store seemed to begin to move, to crawl, to writhe around the arm.

Then one final word.

"Morsmordre."

And Avery howled at the blinding pain he was being subjected to.

When Tom pulled the wand away a dark, ugly mark marred the pale skin of Marcus Avery. Thick and black, a skull with an undulating snake protruding from its mouth. Tom smirked at his handiwork. Cygnus shuddered while Malfoy had gone chalk white, the man still suspended between them. The other four beheld the ritual with mixed looks of fear and revulsion.

"Time for your first lesson, Nero. Draco, Swan, hold him up a bit higher. Good. Now…" Tom twirled his wand idly. "A demonstration." Faster than the eye could detect, he spun around to face the prone figure of Mr. Burke and –

"_Crucio!_"

Burke thrashed about in pain, screaming a scream that no one could hear, Tom's _Silencio_ still in effect. He held his wand on the man for ten seconds, feeling the power and glory that came with such sweet torture rushing through him, energizing him, appeasing his virulent magic.

_There_, he crooned, _isn't that satisfying?_

Tom lifted his wand, canceling the curse. Burke lay drooping between Malfoy and Black, a hover charm keeping him in place. With a wave of Tom's hand the man fell to the floor with a _thump_. He looked out of the corner of his eye at an apprehensive Avery.

"That is the proper way to cast the Cruciatus Curse. As a part of your indoctrination into the Death Eater's you must perform it. And _hold it_. For twenty seconds, you must hold it. The potency and force of the curse must not fluctuate in either direction. Each time you fail," here, his eyes glinted with pleasure, "_I_ will cast the Unforgivable upon you for twenty seconds. And there's no telling which intensity I will… _bestow_ upon you. Make sure you do not disappoint me. Your Master does not take kindly to incompetence."

A vaguely nauseous expression had made its way onto Avery's face. Tom backed off to the sidelines, leaving the new Death Eater facing his adversary on his own.

"T-_Azrael_," he corrected himself. "Azrael, what about the Trace?"

Tom stared hard at him. Stared until Avery started twitching with nerves.

"Do you not recall," he spoke slowly, as if the boy in front of him was mentally handicapped, "our last meeting and what our discourse entailed?" A very confused Avery jerked his head. _No_.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Fool," he whispered. "Why do you think you were able to Apparate here tonight without those buffoons posing as competent wizards running the Ministry being alerted?" A look of fearful comprehension dawned on Avery's previously distorted face. "It is a wonder you're still walking." Tom shook his head in exasperation. "Begin."

Avery smoothed the front of his robes, a renewed confidence shining through his demeanor. His wand hand shaking with the knowledge of what was to come, he cried, "_Crucio!_"

**X**

Later that night he sat at his desk, scribbling furiously in his journal, remaking himself from the ashes of his former life, creating perfection and a man to be feared. It wasn't until he could feel the earth changing, on the brink of light but still steeped in darkness, that he sat back, a blank look on his noble features.

"I Am Lord Voldemort," he whispered, testing it, getting a feel for his new self.

"I Am Lord Voldemort," he repeated with more force. He felt a surge in his magic. This was right. This was _good_.

"I _Am_ Lord Voldemort."

His lips twitched.

**X**

There was still one week left until the end of the summer holidays and he _still_ hadn't received his Hogwarts letter. Tom scowled into the slop every orphan had been given for supper. He already knew what books he had to buy, having spent every day at Diagon Alley and conversing with the employees at Flourish and Blotts, but there was something specific in this particular letter that he so desired, and couldn't figure out what was taking so long.

He lifted his spoon and watched as his "dinner" gooped up and then dropped with a splattered "plop" back into the bowl. If only magic were able to Transfigure food as well… but of course he knew better. You can't make food into something it's not – part of one of the rules to Gamp's Laws of Elementary Transfiguration. His frown deepened. Disgusted, he pushed himself back from the table and trudged up the stairs to his room.

It was only five-thirty; he'd have to wait until nine before sneaking out, as lights-out was eight-thirty for everyone else. Tom smiled wryly. Such petty rules didn't apply to him. He was above them all, for he made his _own_ rules, rules that others were meant to follow. But not him. _Never _him.

Tom lay down on his cramped bed, sat up and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape before reclining once more, hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he wondered what Malfoy and the rest of his entourage would think of he, Tom Ri – _Lord Voldemort_, if they saw him stuck in a place with a bunch of sniveling Muggles.

_Die of shock, most likely_, he grouched to himself.

As much as he detested Muggles, Tom saw his time with them as a learning experience: in order to better combat them, to better get his wizarding comrades to follow his cause (and what, exactly, _was_ that?), he had to fully know and understand them. It made for an interesting study. And he had learned something very important from this examination: they're all the same. Muggles and wizards – they're All. The. Same. They're all selfish, they're all driven by their own ambitions, _Id_, and they always have an ulterior motive to everything that they do. And because he knew this, he was two steps ahead of everyone else since they were all in denial. It was a great power that he now wielded.

Lifting a hand into the air, he fisted it so that he was pointing one finger and then began to trace a design into the ceiling. Reds and greens, blacks and whites, peach and a little bit of enmity. He was enthralled, stuck in a trance, not in control of that which he was weaving, forced to remain the observer as his hand created a symphony of color and desire. It ended abruptly and, jolted by surprise, his arm went slack and hit him in the face.

"Ouch," he protested impulsively, his eyes having closed before impact. The darkness behind his eyes was overwhelming and he yearned to see, to dissect, the colors that had been sent from his hand and to the sky. His eyes flashed open. The red on the ceiling was reflected eerily in his eyes.

His eyebrows drew together, confused.

"What in the…" he muttered, unable to understand what he was seeing. For, in the place of the powerful man he had expected to see, a man with the world at his feet, he saw himself. He was maybe a few years older, this he could tell, with a dark knowledge in his gaze and a slightly bloody tinge to his eyes. He was handsome, even more so than he was now, his wavy hair parted to the side and that ever rebellious lock falling into his face. He had power, oh yes, with a Head Boy badge pinned to his elegant Hogwarts robes and a spark at his fingertips. But what Tom couldn't understand was the other figure in the mural.

It was a _girl_ and her beauty could only be matched by his. She had long, flowing black hair and the greenest eyes he had ever seen. In later years, after having cast the _Avada Kedavra_ multiple times, he would describe them (only to himself, of course) as being that particular, most powerful and wondrous, shade of green. The young woman, the only term he could use to describe her, stood regally before him, the hardness of her stance tempered by the – was it indecision? – in her eyes. This was a person he could not control, that he could see, and it bothered him.

But what bothered him most was his own expression – he was _imploring _her.

As soon as he realized this the illusion burst, leaving him with one last thought before an incessant tapping at his window began: despite the doubt in her eyes, she could see into his very soul and knew him as he truly was.

He rose, uncertain, from his bed and opened the window. A barn owl dropped his Hogwarts letter onto his bed and then flew back into the descending night. He didn't have to look to know that the Prefect's badge was inside.

**X**

"_He's here… the heir, he'ss here… he hass returned… Blood… I need BLOOD!"_

Tom jerked awake, hissing and spitting profanities before he realized where he was – the Slytherin dormitories.

His sheets were twisted in a lump at the foot of his bed and his pajama bottoms were soaked with sweat, as were his pillow and unclothed upper body. Tom pushed a sticky piece of hair from his face. Taking a peak outside of his hangings, he was relieved to see that the dorm was quiet with the heavy breathing of his fellows.

A glance at his watch revealed it to be 5:49 in the morning. Tom flopped onto his back in his luxurious bed, his abdominal muscles rippling. Was this what his search had come down to? Hearing tauntings within the walls, never to find the source? He'd spent the last four years combing the castle for Salazar Slytherin's legendary chamber, all for naught. He was in his fifth year at Hogwarts school and still had yet to find it. And Salazar above, his sixteenth birthday was in eight days!

Tom groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

If only there was a clue, just a small one, something to point him in the right direction. "Puer Patrici… Boy of privilege… Boy of inheritance…" he murmured, half asleep. "Damn Hat…"

He was on the verge of fallen back to sleep when he threw the covers off of himself with renewed vigor, eyes flashing with purpose. He waved his hand and caught his wand, using the other to make his bed before summoning his uniform and stalking off to the bathroom. Tom showered quickly and threw on his clean robes, picking an invisible piece of lint off of the hem of his sleeve before combing his wavy hair to the side. He licked his thumb and took a small strand, calculatingly separating it to have it rest by his eye.

Sure of his appearance, he, with his glistening Prefect's badge pinned boldly to his front, made his way out of the dorms and into the corridor, intent on the Headmaster's office.

Tom reached out with his mind as he traversed the halls of Hogwarts, prepared to avoid anyone he might meet along the way. All he sensed was age-old dust and spiders and some deep, sinister, gluttonous mind, immersed in the very bowels of the castle. This, more than anything, assured him of the reality of the Chamber. He had no doubt that it was this creature that had been waking him over the last few years with its demand for blood…

Tom quickly found himself in front of the gargoyle that concealed the Headmaster's quarters.

"Password?" it wheezed.

"Dancing trolls," he said, making a face.

"Correct. Next time, wait until a more normal hour you dunce," it grumbled as it stepped to the side to reveal a revolving staircase.

Not waiting for the gargoyle to give another snarky reply, Tom took the steps two at a time until he reached a highly polished oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a Griffin. Closing his eyes, he listened for movement in the office – there was none. He could faintly detect the tail-end of a dream that the current headmaster, Armando Dippet, was living, nothing more. Cautiously, he slipped into the room, leaving the door cracked open just in case he needed to get away quickly.

Tom had only been in here once before and was just as unimpressed with the office this time as the last – neat, orderly papers were stacked on the desk, the bookshelves only a quarter of the way full with boring titles such as _Ministry Protocol: 273rd Edition_ and _Muggles and You – Jargon, Customs, and Locales,_ as well as Tom's _personal _favorite: _The Wizard's Consultation: How to Relate to that Special Someone_.

None of this mattered, however, for Tom had just spotted the object he'd come to this place for: the Sorting Hat.

Without pausing, Tom rounded the desk and plucked the Hat from the top shelf, jamming it onto his head immediately.

_Hat_, he growled, _I need to have a few words with you._

Silence reigned. Tom pulled out his wand and pointed it at the Hat perched upon his head.

_Talk, or I set you on fire._

The Hat coughed.

_Now now, Mr. Riddle. We both know that you wouldn't do that._

_True_, he conceded. _But I _would _curse you until you decided to speak._

He heard a whistling in his mind. _Ah, yes, indeed you would. And you possess both the education and the strength to harm me. But, alas, you couldn't make me talk unless I wished to. Now,_ it interrupted Tom, _you wanted to know what it is that I meant when we spoke at your Sorting._

_Yes_, the Hat continued, _I remember it well. I see that you've already figured out your lineage, __**puer patrici**__. Salazar Slytherin's last living descendent on your mother's side, Muggle on the father's. How disappointed you were when you found out…_

Tom's temper flared. The Hat _tsked_ at him.

_Keep that febrile tendency for aggression to yourself, boy. I know exactly what it is that you've been up to – torturing Hufflepuffs, gaining recruits for your… __**movement**_.

If hats could frown, surely the Sorting Hat would be.

_You come to me today because you have been told that the Chamber must be found before the end of your sixteenth year. You are fifteen and, therefore, this deadline is in eight days. _

Tom was growing impatient. _Hat_, he said, _I really don't care to listen to a repetition of things I already know. I'm not even going to pretend to be nice, as we both know it would be a lie. Now, I know that Salazar Slytherin and the other Founders placed their minds, intuition, magic, et cetera, within you. That's how you know which house to place students in. So tell me now and truly: __**where**__ is the Chamber of Secrets? _He all but snarled.

The Hat contemplated him.

_You have much still to learn of this world, Tom Marvolo Riddle,_ it sighed, _and I don't have the time nor the resources to teach you. No one does. You must make your own way in this life, and the path you are currently on leads only to anguish. _

_Salazar Slytherin did lock away part of himself in me. This, I yield to you. However, this was long before he created his Chamber, long before it was ever a thought in his mind. _It paused. _I don't know where it lies. Remember the stories you've been told. Follow the augury of your mind, your heart. It shan't lead you astray._

The Sorting Hat fell silent, and Tom knew that he would glean no more information from it. With a frustrated moan he tossed the Hat back onto its place at the top of the shelf and abandoned the office, having gathered nothing of use.

**X**

The black scales of his heavy body blended perfectly with the dark halls of Hogwarts. Tom was making his nightly rounds of the school, ones he made while on duty as a Prefect or not. Although, the nights that he _was _on duty were especially long since he had to make _this _special round as well. Oftentimes he wouldn't even go to sleep, just shower and get ready for breakfast. The circles under his eyes were becoming more and more prominent, his temper amongst the Death Eaters more barbarous than usual.

His teachers saw a wholly different boy than his followers. Tom's school-work was exceptional, the best it had ever been. His appearance remained entirely unruffled, a quick glamour in the mornings masking his sleepless nights, hair and robes in pristine condition, never once shirking his duties as Prefect. He pointed lost students in the right direction; helped the odd Ravenclaw find information in the library that was lost to them; broke up fights before they could even start… The perfect model student.

Thank evolution for magic.

Tom had finally narrowed down the possibilities as to where the Chamber resided to the dungeons and somewhere on the second floor. The dungeons seemed to be _too_ obvious, and the strange man that Slughorn had described to him and his reaction _on _that floor had stuck with Tom ever since third year. It really was too bad it had taken him so long to figure out. It was now 9:59 PM.

He was turning sixteen in two hours.

He had _two hours_ to find the Chamber.

He slithered along faster at the very thought.

Handy he checked every room, every passage, every nook and cranny on the second floor? he'd checked the extra teacher's lounge, Professor Callahan's office, the boy's bathroom, the girls –

No he hadn't.

Tom's already large, slitted eyes dilated.

He'd forgotten to check stupid Myrtle's bathroom, the one that the other members of the feminine population refused to go into because she was always running off for some reason or another to cry her pathetic eyes out.

Would Salazar Slytherin, one of Hogwarts' four founders, _really _hide the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, labyrinth of mythical terror, in a girl's toilet?

If he'd had hands at that moment, Tom Riddle would have slapped himself.

Tom whipped his body around and made his way as fast as possible towards the girl's bathroom. How _thick_ could he be? Just because it would've violated his sense of propriety was no reason not to have a look!

He nearly stopped at the thought. Since when did he, Lord Voldemort, have a sense of propriety? Of right and wrong? When did he ever allow something as silly as those two concepts get in the way of what he wanted?

_Desperation has made me careless_.

He'd come to the bathroom at last. 10:59. Exactly one hour left.

As soon as he knew that no one was inside, he was there, quite suddenly, in all of his imposing and majestic glory. He walked alongside every wall with his eyes closed, feeling for the ancient magic, walked into every cubicle, touched every toilet, every floor-tile, but as he got closer and closer to the sinks, a pulsing power became more and more apparent.

His eyes finally snapped open to see himself staring back through the mirror. He looked down at where his hands rested. Tom turned the taps; nothing. Crouched down and felt along the pipes, looked at the underside of the sinks. Still, nothing. Tom stood up and frowned, checked his watch again.

11:32.

His eyes turned back to the sink. A slight frown made its way across his refined features. He touched the taps once more, knelt down to them at eye-level.

There.

On the left copper tap.

An engraving of a rearing snake.

Hardly daring to hope, terrified that it was just a trick, he hissed quietly in his ancestor's infamous tongue, "_Open._"

The tap began to spin, faster and faster until it was just a bright, blinding white, and, with an unholy shriek, the sink moved down and to the side, revealing a man-sized pipe to the startled heir.

Without so much as a thought he became the very large Vampyrum Spectrum and flew into the pipe, the sink slamming closed behind him. He carefully navigated his way through the intricate highway of pipes, descending further and further into the black unknown until, finally, he came to the floor of a huge cavern littered with the bones of long-dead animals.

A man once more, Tom stood and listened patiently for movement. Ahead of him the tunnel wore on, twisting and turning like the many coils of a snake. Tom smirked lightly at his ancestor's architectural achievement, admiring the perverse allusion, and continued onwards. His stride was smooth and sinuous, taking the bends in the tunnel as though he, too, were a snake, his heart careening wildly in his chest. He would clean up this tunnel, polish it to shine as it would have in its more formative days, banish all of the skeletons, patch up the leaky holes, add torches to light the way…

He rounded one more bend and came face-to-face with a solid wall where twin snakes were wrapped lovingly around each other, fierce emeralds glittering back at him strangely from their eye sockets.

Tom tilted his head.

"_Open_."

The snakes unwound from one another and the two halves of the wall slid apart, laying bare the Chamber of Secrets to Tom Riddle.

Without any hesitation, Tom strode forth into the Chamber.

Tall columns on both sides line the Chamber, reaching up and up, disappearing into the vast black beyond. Serpents were carved into every single one, standing out from the stone, looking just as alive as he. Directly ahead of him was the man responsible for it all – his life, this Chamber, the enmity between the Houses: a stone statue of Salazar Slytherin. His simian face was old, his beard falling to his feet, a callous edge to this vengeful archetype.

The five seconds where he was distracted by his ancestor were enough as he was abruptly thrown into the air, slamming down, hard, on his back. Tom turned to face his attacker but it was far too late.

A body, thick as an oak tree, a startlingly bright, poisonous green, was winding around him, around and around, stopping far above his head. There was just enough room for him to take five small steps in either direction.

He was trapped.

And he took it in stride.

Tom ran his hands along the serpent of serpent's body: the Basilisk. He stroked it reverently, eliciting a delicate shiver from the King before it let out a hiss.

"_Sstop_."

He didn't. He put his face to the beast's skin and drew in a deep breath, continuing his ministrations, nuzzling its body, even giving it a lick. The Basilisk's body rippled.

"_Fool! I ssaid SSTOP!_" it spat so loudly that dust was shaken from the ceiling. Tom complied. Nevertheless, he kept one hand to its body.

"_Forgive me, King of the Serpents. I could not help myself; being in your presence, your noble and ancient prowess… it has humbled me and I sought only to please you._"

It was silent, and then a deep, rumbling hiss poured forth from the snake. It took a very puzzled Tom several seconds before he realized that he was being laughed at. The Basilisk was _laughing _at him! He stood indifferently, his finger absently tracing circles on the serpent's tough, yet deliciously soft, hide, waiting for the laughter to subside and for the beast to speak to him.

"_If I were to go by perssonality alone in determining if you were truly the heir, that, ssertainly, would have been the dessiding factor. Ssuch groveling wit, sspoken sso calmly, iss sso very _Sslytherin." The beast heaved a sigh. "_But there have been a few otherss who have made their way into thiss hallowed plasse, caliming to be Ssalazsar'ss heir when, in truth, they were not_."

"_What happened to them?_" Tom whispered, continuing to stroke the beast.

"_They died_," he stated simply. "_And then I ate them_."

Tom smiled and kissed its side. "_As they deserved_."

"_Ass they desserved_," he echoed. "_It iss time, little masster, to determine if you are truly the heir. Are you ready?_"

"_In a moment_," Tom replied. "_But first… your name, dear snake? Might I know it?_"

"_Only the heir may learn of it_," came the thunderous reply. "_And if you are truly he, then be not afraid to look into my eyess. Only the heir can ssurvive my sstare_," he lilted in his hissing tone.

Tom ran his hands over the fearsome serpent once more before standing straight and looking up at the figure. "_I'm ready._"

"_Keep looking up, young one._" The endearment echoed in his head. It had been a long time since he'd last heard it. Tom smiled happily, genuinely, unmarred by the savage bestiality that usually sought his angelic face.

"_Now closse your eyess,_" Tom acquiesced, "_and do not open them until you are told._"

What little light that had been filtering through was now utterly blocked. Tom noted, from behind closed lids, that this sort of darkness was peaceful. Affectionate, almost.

He felt a presence hovering just above his head.

"_Open_," came the sibilant voice, warm breath caressing his entire being.

He did, and it was the most beautiful yellow he'd ever seen.

The Basilisk's eyes widened in shock when he did not die. The two stared at one another for a long while, reveling in the new companion each had made. Very carefully, the Basilisk uncoiled itself, the great, bulbous eyes never leaving Tom's.

"_Your name, my king?_" Tom inquired softly.

The king dipped his head mournfully. "_Thanatoss_."

"_Death._"

Thanatos nodded.

"_Is that what you wish to be called? Thanatos?_" Tom asked tenderly.

The great snake shook his head.

"_What would you prefer?_" he queried.

"_Prometheuss._" The snake's eyes, beacons blazing into Tom's personal darkness, shone with uncertainty.

Tom nodded, thoughtful. "_Very_ _fitting, I should think._"

Prometheus' eyes burned happily.

"_And you, young masster? What am I to call you?_"

Tom walked up to the giant beast and, gently, ever so gently, cradling the large head in his arms, laying his cheek upon Thanatos' head, he replied in an amorous tone:

"_Voldemort. You may call me Voldemort._"

The two remained silent, taking comfort in the other's presence. Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to last.

"It's about time you found us here, Tom."

Tom looked into Thanatos' eyes, sad eyes.

"_I couldn't warn you, young one. It wass forbidden._"

Tom nodded and smiled a half-smile at Thanatos to make it known that he wasn't to blame. He stood from his spot with straightened shoulders and turned to see a rather monkeyish face before him.

"Salazar Slytherin." He said coldly.

"You beckoned, young master?" he mocked, bowing with a melodramatic sweep of his robes and arms. "Though I _do_ hope you don't expect me to address you as such each time we meet. Or as 'Lord Voldemort. How utterly tedious that would be. I much prefer 'Tom,' nice and simple, don't you agree?"

Tom's eyes danced maliciously, refusing to respond to the taunts of his ancestor.

"Tut tut, how very _rude_ of you not to respond to a direct question from a superior. Didn't those Muggles at the orphanage teach you anything?" At Tom's continued lack of response he shrugged, sighing exaggeratedly. "To business, then," Slytherin said, dropping the act. With a flick of his wand he conjured two arm chairs. Tom's stoicism seemed to know no bounds as he remained in an upright position. Slytherin ignored him and sat down, folding his hands across his lap.

With a wave of his hand, Tom banished the extra chair and conjured his own straight-backed, dark, threatening, one. He finally deigned to sit down and he, too, folded his hands in his lap, eyebrows raised. Salazar bared his teeth in a grin, tipping his head in Tom's direction. Prometheus watched warily.

"We only have tonight together to speak of what must be done before the magic fails and I'm swept back to the netherworld for good. That being said, the room we are now in is the Chamber's main atrium. Behind me, within my statue, there are several different antechambers as well as a giant office full of my own studies and other… useful… curricula." Slytherin's eyes glittered. "However, I'll leave the Chamber's _secrets_ be – I'm sure you can figure them out on your own. Just don't take too long.

"Now for this _school_," he spat in disgust. "Allowing Mudbloods and half-breeds to sully these sacred halls… it must end!" He slammed his fist on the chair. Tom watched, expression blank. "You will set THANATOS on the students. The snake was too dense to speak to you through the walls so _I _had to. You'll find the contraption to do so in one of the other rooms. You will take back what is ours. You _will_ do this because it is the only reason you exist. You exist to carry on my own work, nothing more. Are we clear?" Slytherin's mien crackled with magical static.

Tom merely looked at him with amusement.

"I only exist," he enunciated clearly, as though sorting through a difficult puzzle, "in order to execute your will. Hmm…" he hummed ponderously, going so far as to stroke his chin, a jeering cliché. "Yes, well, you see, there's a slight problem with that, dear progenitor."

"Oh?" Slytherin said, not really paying attention.

"Indeed. You see, I will not be controlled, _cannot_ be controlled, even by the likes of you, Salazar Slytherin, _greatest_," he sneered, "of the Hogwarts Four. I have my own plans, my own vision, and you and yours are not a part of it."

Here he stood, dusting off his robes, adjusting his brilliant Prefect's badge. "It was nice meeting you, sir, but I must be off. I have my own path to follow." He winked. "Enjoy death."

With a grin he spun around to leave, only to come face-to-face with a pearly Slytherin and his incensed amusement.

"You will do as I say, seed of my race," he whispered threateningly.

Tom took a step forward, peering down marginally at the twisted face, a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. He bent his head further, lips to the ancient ear.

"_Or what?_" he hissed, tongue flickering.

"_Or I will end you, silly boy_," he returned in the same tongue.

"Then let us duel," Tom spoke levelly, wand snaking out of his sleeve. "Let us duel, now. To the death." His eyes sparkled with life, his entire manner beautifully animated.

Slytherin's eyes fired at the challenge. "Send my regards to the Specter when you see him, filth."

Tom laughed and crooked a finger. "Come and get me, old man."

An explosion of color clashed from Slytherin's wand, Tom side-stepping it. Spell after spell left the ancient wand, colors blending into one another with such speed and dexterity that could only be wrought by experience. Tom jumped, dodged, rolled, and spun, gracefully, _always _gracefully, as though he were performing an intricate dance, an untouchable target, having yet to raise his wand in defense.

The venerable man's expression grew darker, an unrestrained venom pouring forth from his entire manner, frustrated that the boy wasn't fighting back. He conjured boulders and dropped them over the boy – missed. Siphoned all of the water dripping from the walls, created a huge tidal wave that he sent crashing over the heir – missed, laughter ringing in his ears. Six jets of glorious green, rushing towards him at different heights and angles – all avoided.

Tom stood, elation rolling off of him in torrents, that rebellious lock of wavy hair falling charmingly into his eyes.

"My turn."

A wave of his wand turned Slytherin's hair into wriggling vines that creeped over and around his arms and neck. The second casual flick brought a hang-man's noose that rotated slowly above Slytherin's head. And the third, final gesture brought the very same noose around the antiquated neck and jerked him high up into the air. The vines had already bound him irreversibly, and Tom watched in satisfaction as the body did desperate pirouettes.

"Beautiful," he sighed.

The body ceased its struggle, oscillated languidly with death. A sudden screech rent the air anew, a flash of radiant light lit up the Chamber, and when Tom could finally open his eyes again without seeing spots, it was to find no vestigial trace of the once mighty founder.

**X**

He might as well have been a stone gargoyle sitting atop the Astronomy tower for all the movement he made, staring out into the evaporating night sky. Everything was beginning to come together; he could feel change on the horizon. His fight down in the Chamber, his first real kill, Thanatos… It was the first time in a long while that he truly felt _alive_. He would do any and everything to reclaim that feeling once more.

There was no going back now. He'd made his decision, and, once that conscious decision, the decision to _live_, is made, there is no chance to recant: An endless future lay before him.

He stood to face the oncoming dawn. Spreading his arms wide, he fell forward, trusting the fading stars to carry him to safety.

**X**

_The Daily Prophet Reports_

_**Five Petrified and One Dead!**_

_**Will Hogwarts Go On?**_

_It recently came to light that some creature hidden within the bowels of Hogwarts castle has surfaced to terrorize the school. It is unclear what sort of creature is capable of such an incredible feat as it leaves no traces, no clues, as to how it did so and where it's been. The victims stand thus:_

_Aaron, Matthew of Hufflepuff - Petrified_

_Lovegood, Liana of Ravenclaw - Petrified_

_Bartleby, Louisa of Hufflepuff - Petrified_

_Greengrass, Celia of Slytherin - Petrified_

_Abott, Jonathan of Gryffindor - Petrified _

_Mayberry, Myrtle of Ravenclaw – Deceased_

_With the exception of the Slytherin witch, all of the victims are Muggleborn. Has the legendary Chamber of Secrets been reopened?_

_

* * *

_

_The Daily Prophet Reports_

_**Caught!**_

_The perpetrator of the crimes at Hogwarts has been captured and expelled. While we are unable to get a name to the criminal, inside sources have revealed that he was a Gryffindor. Slytherin's very own Prefect, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was the one to catch the boy in the act._

"_I was only doing my civic duty," he answered sheepishly. "Performing my regular Prefects round when I caught him. Really, it's no big deal."_

_Mr. Riddle was awarded a shield for Special Services to the School._

_

* * *

_

A/N: And just in time for the release of Half Blood Prince tonight! I'm SO excited - can't wait to see it at midnight! Anyways, I hope you liked this chappie. Sorry it wasn't out sooner, but between going to Canada, getting stitches, volunteering, taking my mom to the ER, and some other exciting things, well, it was just a bit difficult to work on, wouldn't you say? I hope the duel with Slytherin wasn't too cheesy. Ask questions, and I'll answer!  
A/N 2: Cygnus - latin for Swan  
Draco - latin for snake/dragon (Abraxas is also a snake-related name. recently I found out that Phineas is most likely derived from a Hebrew name meaning snake-tongue, or oracle.)  
Nero - an emperor of Rome who nearly burned the entire city down. Traditionally regarded as insane.  
Azrael - Archangel of Death, Hebrew


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